theseaofskulls-blog

[theseaofskulls-blog]

Beethoven Escapes a Dinosaur

Beethoven Escapes A Dinosaur

A tragedy 

Ludwig Van Beethoven was a man whose music spoke of a sorrow at the very centre of our lives, he was rarely demonstrative but explosive when so, and even more elusive than numerous biographies would have you know. Born in 1770 during a particularly bitter winter, Ludwig inherited two gifts. The first was esoteric at best, he was in possession of a soul in tune with the vibrations of the universe. His ability to pick out echoes from the air, and distil them into music was peerless, and as he closed his eyes, he’d sense the very fabric of reality vibrating around him. Like a taught animal hide stretched across a drum, he’d trap the sounds he heard within his belly, and allowed them to echo through him. Plucking at his tendons like harp strings, he became the very music itself.

The second gift was from his Grandfather on is his mother’s side, and that was the ability to time travel. He didn’t require a machine, or huge swathes of energy. Johann Keverich’s family had come unstuck from our universe’s time stream in the late 1600s when one of his ancestors made some catastrophic agreements with beings he shouldn’t have. However this story isn’t about time travel, it isn’t about dinosaurs though both have key parts to play. This, as with all great stories, is the story about a boy and girl.

 *

 Beethoven’s first, and some say only true, love was Giulietta Guicciardi, a young countess to whom he gave private piano tuition. As a man not of noble birth, society would never have allowed such a partnership, decorum and her decisions dictated otherwise, but that didn’t stop this love burning brightest during his life. He tried to liken his dutch Van with the noble German Von, but to no avail. This small, impossible love drove him to do many foolish things. She was a flighty love, warm and cold, near and then distant. Ludwig provided her the emotional love she’d always dreamt of, and she thought of their affair as an echo of Tristan and Isolde. She imagined their impossible union in the vernacular of Shakespeare’s doomed loves and all the while, they both knew it would never happen. Neither would be able to throw off the shackles of decorum to allow their love to blossom and grow. It was always fated not to be.

 *

 Things were in constant flux around Ludwig, and often he’d unstick himself and fling himself wildly through time for his rage was the only outlet for his seemingly unrequited love. Many believed that when he’d first begun to show signs of deafness, that it was due to this temper. He’d been working furiously on a new piece of music, or so they thought, when he was interrupted by his staff. Ludwig had never been in the best of health, and so when he exploded in rage people felt this had caused his subsequent deafening. However this was not the case.

 *

Ludwig had come to the end of another lesson with Giulietta, and as Ludwig gathered up his papers, he made trivial small talk.

‘And what would you most like to hear Giulietta, if one was to magic these sounds out of the air for you, what would you most like? A lark’s song? The crack of a mountain glacier?’

Ludwig believed that ideas as such were the way to her heart. As if to understand her wants, and to provide them, that would make her love him completely. Or at least enough to break all the social structures that prevented them being together. However one doesn’t merely throw away generations of breeding on the whims of what her father called, a bard who doesn’t sing.

Giulietta, with all her beauty, and genuine affection for Ludwig, was also a caustic presence in his life. She chafed and irritated, at his heart and at his mind. She played with him as a cat with a ball of yarn, batting him away, only to draw him closer than anyone else.

‘Ludwig,’ she said in her lilting Italian accent, ‘I’d like to hear a dragon’s roar, I’d like to hear god’s words as he breathed life into his creation, and I’d like to hear the moon’s lament.’ She laughed coquettishly, coming over to him and resting her thin fingers on his upper arm and squeezed. ‘But these are the wishes of a little girl, foolishness in the light of God’s eye.’ She turned and left the room, and immediately the cogs in Beethoven’s mind began to spin. This was almost as if in a fairy tale, with him being the titular hero of his own tale, off on an adventure to win the hand of a capricious queen. He saw the curtain of reality peel apart for him as he tried to imagine what a dragon even was. To contemplate a monstrous creation on God’s earth was in itself ridiculous, but having already had a lifetime of maladies and illnesses, he knew that the God that created sunrises, humming birds, and Giulietta could also create the black bile that was drained from him. He could create winters that took the elderly and the young. He was an old testament God who’s love was paid for in blood and suffering.

 But dragons? How would one find them? He’d heard of the skulls discovered in the Orient, buried under centuries of earth so that they could only be freed with a pick axes. He’d heard that Prince Lobkowitz, an early patron of Ludwig’s, had recently acquired one and so hastily packed up his manuscripts, and hailed a carriage to the Prince’s abode. On approaching the palace, he heard the Prince call from his balcony.

 ‘Is that Young Ludwig? Maybe he has come to play me some new song he has stolen from heaven?’

 ‘Prince Lobkowitz’ Ludwig hailed, ‘It is an honour to see you this fine day, I was hoping I may take up some of your time.’ He disembarked from the carriage, papers bundled under his arm.

 ‘Of course, Ludwig, curator of my soul, come in come in come in’ The prince excitedly exclaimed as he ran down to his entrance hall. He was sprightly for his age, and his eyes shone with a joy that spoke of a heart unburdened. ‘How may I help you my wonderful man?’

 ‘Prince, I believe you have recently acquired, I cannot believe these words are to leave my lips, the skull of a dragon.’ Ludwig raised his hand to his eyes, as if to cover his embarrassment of asking such a silly question.

 ‘Dragon? Ah yes, you mean the dinosaur. The TERRIBLE lizard! For it IS monstrous Ludwig. It’s fangs, its huge empty eye sockets. Come see, Ludwig, come behold the horror!’ The prince escorted Ludwig through his gold encrusted palace till they came to a small chamber, hidden away. The prince rest his hand on the door and placed the other on Beethoven’s heart. ‘I can feel your heart beating, it is racing Ludwig, as it should. I assure you, it is perfectly safe.’ And with no little showmanship, the Prince swung open the door to reveal the giant skull of what we now know to be a Tyrannosaurus Rex. The Terrible King.

 It was pale, as one would expect of petrified bone. It stood over the height of a man both tall and long. And as Ludwig’s eyes rested on its alien curvature, he felt the soul of this beast stir in him. He approached tentatively, his arms out wide as he gingerly felt each foot forward. He could hear the laughter in Prince Lobkowitz silence, he saw it reverberating beneath his iris and in his body. But the Prince understood the thrill of what Beethoven was experiencing, something he’d never seen, something the great man couldn’t even imagine was now in front of him.

‘To see this your highness, is to see my own death.’ Ludwig said forlornly, ‘My own fragility is laid bare by the demise of this once great beast.’ His arms could barely stretch wide enough, so he thread his arm into the various crevices and sockets of the beast. He rolled his open palms around the nasal cavity, he ran his fingers gently down the serrated teeth that would terrify a lion and he turned his back on it and sat by it. Dwarfed by every proportion, he sat in the shadow of the monster.

To see this creature, once great and resplendent, calcified, exposed to Ludwig that even the giants that made the mountains quake were destined for the same end.

Prince Lobkowitz had tired at Ludwig’s groping of the skull, did a needlessly dramatic yawn and spoke.

‘Ludwig, I shall leave you to distil whatever beautiful liquor you can from this titan’s skull, I feel like going on a hunt. I’d ask you to join me, but I know you’d only refuse.’ And with that, the Prince departed leaving Beethoven with the skull and some wan candle light. When he was quite sure he was alone, Ludwig turned to the skull, placed his ear against, and tried to listen for its song.

 *

 When Ludwig had been a small child, he’d visited his grandfather who had taken him into the family barn. In it were a couple of disgruntled farm yard animals annoyed that they’d been found by their masters. His grandfather cleared the centre of the room and stood opposite young Ludwig. He drew a circle in the hay and dirt by scoring his heel into it. When they were both within the ring, his grandfather spoke in a solemn manner.

‘I am going to teach you something Ludwig. And it isn’t going to be easy, but it will open up the world to you.’

‘Is it a new song?’ he replied.

‘It is the only song. It is the song of time.’

‘How do you play it? What instrument?’

‘You don’t play it Ludwig, you merely listen. And the instrument, well it is you, and me, and everyone else.’

‘I’m not sure I understand grandfather?’

‘It is difficult to explain, but easier to show. Think of the last time you were truly happy.’

Ludwig paused, happiness was always such a fleeting emotion. Transitory and weak he thought to himself.

‘It was last Sunday grandfather, we’d been to church and it was sunny. I could smell the grass that had been shorn on the hill, and the wind would catch the smell and bring it to us.’ His grandfather smiled, and took his hand.

‘Now I want you to think of that moment, specifically that hill. Can you remember it? Can you smell it? Close your eyes and keep thinking of that hill. Can you smell it?’

It was a short while, no more than a minute, and then Ludwig spoke.

‘I can smell it Grandfather, I can feel the wind on my neck. I can hear the birds in the trees.’

‘Open your eyes.’

Ludwig gasped a sharp intake of cool fresh air. They were stood on the hill, down at the bottom he could see himself walking with his family. The clock in the town square rang out once, and he saw birds murmur on the horizon. It was hard for his mind to form the correct questions. He passed out. When he awoke he was back in the barn.

‘Grandfather,’ he said pulling himself from the dirt and straw while patting himself, ‘H-how did we do that?’

‘You closed your eyes, and thought in such a way that the universe heard you and took you there.’

Ludwig just looked at him, eyes glistening with tears of joy. He ran and embraced the old man, his body physically shaking as the reality of what he could do coursed through his body.

 *

 Ludwig closed his eyes and let his mind think of this animal, the sounds it made, the breath it breathed. His eyes still closed, he first heard the faith mechanical buzz of insects. He then saw the light change from beneath his eyelids. The faint red flicker was replaced by a bright red wash across the black. The smooth skull under his fingertips was replaced by what felt at once like scales, but also feathers. It was then he heard it, a deep and guttural growl. He heard lungs wheeze like bellows before a bellicose fire. He slowly opened his eyes. He was no longer in Prince Lobkowitz palace in Vienna. Instead he was in a forest the likes of which he hadn’t seen. It was teeming with life, in shapes and form unimaginable but there was only one life that mattered. He looked to where his hand had been resting, on the side of what could only be described as the most terrifying dragon ever to stalk the earth. Its eye opened, a yellow sun iris with an obscene black gash of a pupil scratched down its centre. It began to move as Ludwig slowly edged away, trying to make as little sound as possible. The creature, once it had reared itself to full size towered over the tree canopy. Taller than the clock in Vienna, taller than the siege towers he’d seen paintings of. It moved its head like a bird, almost quizzically looking at this dressed monkey that stood before a king. Then, without warning, it opened its giant maw a let rip a noise that shook the very earth they stood on. It was a rasping thin noise where it took in air from its nose and mouth, and then the roar. If Ludwig was to imagine the voice of Yaweh, he’d imagine it was this.  A noise that would have terrified the bravest soldier, so for a musician like Ludwig, it consumed the very idea of fear within him. Beethoven stood stock still, petrified. It was only when the beast closed it’s mouth that Ludwig realised something far worse, He could merely hear the echo of the animal, nothing else. Not the buzzing that first greeted him, not even the beat of his own heart. He was deafened and that fear crushed that fear of the dragon, for that loss was more terrifying than the loss of his life. The loss of his legacy. He’d not thought of Giulietta his entire time in this pre-history. But now she was all he could think of. Of her, then of his parents, of his brothers, of Vienna and that skull in Prince Lobkowitz’s grand palace. He thought of the millions of futures snuffed out by his recklessness.

 The Tyrannosaur had picked up his scent, it was different and incongruent in the creature’s world. It had no idea what a powdered wig was, but it would consume it. It knew not what pantaloons were, but it would consume them. It looked down, and amongst the gently swaying ferns and trees it saw Ludwig. It saw Ludwig running, hand on wig and coat unbuttoned and flapping, and gave chase.

 Ludwig closed his eyes and continued to run, he thought of anything he could, but nothing seemed to pull him out of where he was. He thought of his grandfather, he thought of the sound Vienna’s cobbles made against a carriages wheels. Nothing seemed to work. He thought of that skull, the way he’d fingered it. Something then hit him from behind. At first he thought it was the tail, but it was another roar so loud it sent him stumbling over roots and earth till he collapsed in a heap. He pushed himself up with the palms of his hands, breathing heavily. He knew that if he survived this, he’d already pushed his fragile body too far and that he’d fall into another sickness. But even a sickness was better than this. To be ripped from time before he could share all the songs he’d heard was devastating. Still on his knees, he closed his eyes and thought of what he’d miss. Of all the important and life changing things he could feel, the thought that came to him was of the strudel from the shop down the road. When he’d smell the sugar turning to caramel he would put on his jacket and walk down, icing sugar pluming from the shop onto the street, enticing anyone caught in the sweet fog. Ludwig smelt it, and when he opened his eyes, he was in the back larder of the local bakery. Just then, the door opened and the owner was stood there, agog.

 ‘Mr Beethoven, is that you?’ he asked into the poorly lit larder.

 Ludwig burst into tears as he shook. The baker merely walked to him, and gently lifted him from the floor. He called for one of Beethoven’s household to come collect him. His doctors were called and they said that the stress of composing, along with his weak constitution had resulted in a psychological incident. It was on a day shortly after his incident with the dragon when he lost his temper. He’d tried to grasp for any indication that his hearing was returning, so when he was interrupted by a member of staff he flew violently into a rage. Grasping and ripping he shouted unrepeatable curses to the heavens, and then finally retreated to his bed where he fell into a fever and had to recuperate for several months.

 *

 As he lay invalid on his bed. He thought of his hubris, his idiocy in travelling to a world he had no idea about in the hope of winning the affection of someone who would never feel truly the same. He was willing to tear the world down for this woman, but she was never willing to do the same for him. He thought of any potential legacy that had been snuffed out. He thought of the 3 things Giulietta had asked of him. How she’d wanted to hear the roar of a dragon, something he’d never wish on anyone. He thought of her wanting to hear the breath of god, and he thought of waterfalls. How Giulietta wanted someone to present these ideas to her as gifts or prizes because she wasn’t willing to look for them herself. To actually try and hear the voice of god in the sound of a stream or the gentle hum of bees. He then thought of the lament she wished to hear. He thought that this was the gift he would give her. He wanted to give her the sorrow she was lacking.

 The music he created was stronger than something static like his bones. He didn’t want to calcify till he was static and unchanging. He wanted to live on through others experience of the world. He wanted the world to be seen as through his prism. His soul. His music.

 Giulietta and Beethoven began to drift apart when he returned to good health. She had decided to marry Count Von Gallenburg, a low level musician but someone far more suited to her station, and return to her native Italy, settling in Naples. Before she left they had one final lesson. Giulietta had long given up playing, but the pretence enabled them to have one final goodbye.

 Giulietta was sat at the piano when Beethoven entered the room. Time had always moved in a strange and organic way when they were together. It was only now, as they sat side by side, that time actually stopped. Ludwig looked at her. She was motionless, held in a breath that he’d caught. He smiled at her, but it was hollow, and from his bag he withdrew the music he’d written for her. At the top it said Sonata No. 14.

 She still sat motionless. He smelt her hair, and it smelt of rose water. He looked at her small mouth, and he wished to kiss her. One stolen moment for himself. But she was engaged and was to leave Vienna, and Ludwig, if he was honest to himself, loved unrequited love the most. He walked to the door, took one last look at her and left. Time started the moment he’d stepped out the room. In front of Giulietta was the music for the Moonlight Sonata, and when she pressed the C sharp minor, tears sprang from her eyes as her heart tumbled inwards.

[theseaofskulls-blog]

Anatomy of a magic trick

One of my favourite films is the Prestige by Christopher Nolan. In it, he describes how a magic trick works. You have the set up, the performance, and then the prestige. The film is about dueling magicians, and unfortunately for us, this past referendum, along with the last hundred years of politics has been about fooling the electorate into being complicit into making poor decisions for themselves, which benefit the few, and has been about 2 dueling parties. 

The Set Up 

The thing with magic tricks is that you want to believe them. You know they aren’t true. No man can make a woman turn into a tiger, or make the Statue of Liberty disappear. But given enough hairspray, sequins, beautiful assistants and an audience that wants to believe, we will, even for a moment, think, “Whoa! That’s magic”. It never is. Generally it is some poor sap under the stage pulling a lever. And as the applause die down, people leave saying things like, ‘Oh, I know how he did that’ because it makes them feel better for being duped. They generally don’t know, for example I don’t know the intricacies of the recent referendum, but I feel able to write about it, because it I was part of the set up. I was part of the performance, and now, I am watching the Prestige play out in staggering slow motion.  

Why am I talking about magic? Because to me the entire Brexit debate was a magic trick.. Now for the record, this isn’t just about the recent referendum, but all elections. People in power will misdirect us to allow them to do heinous things, usually to the very people they are whipping into a frenzy. The public were meant to think it was about them, especially by the Leave campaign. All the ills in their world were the result of the EU, and to a lesser extent Immigrants. We couldn’t police our borders, and as such this wave of immigrants would come crashing over the border. The immigrants of choice were the Turkish this time round. 72 million Turks were massing on the mainland, ready to storm our sceptred isle! If you wanted something that could tap into the nationalistic pride, why not go for the filthy Saracens we fought in the crusades?  These Turks were coming for our jobs, they were coming for our women (see every article in TAKE A BREAK), and they were MUSLIMS! Wow, triple threat. No one told many people that actually to be accepted into the EU you need to ratify over 20 principles. In the last 10 years Turkey has only managed to bring 1/3 to their parliament , and actually ratified 1 of them. There wasn't an imminent tsunami of people coming to flood us. But heck, who cares as long as we can control our own border. As Michael Gove of the Leave campaign said, "I think we've all had enough of experts"

*

As an aside, I've noticed a worrying trend for those who wanted to leave the EU. Many supporters created what I would call "Schrödinger's Immigrant" - which basically described how Immigrants were at once "taking all their jobs" while also "living off benefits". Now as the child of immigrants, I can tell you most people move because they want a better life. They want to go somewhere there are opportunities. And if your own history, as many an internet meme suggests, is to go around colonising the world and stripping it of its resources, are you really surprised when people then turn around and say, 'Hey, England sounds pretty good!'

*

The Performance

 So if this wasn't about leaving the EU, or jobs, or immigration, then what was it about? This was a power play by people within the Tory party, for leadership and the direction they wanted to go. Many party members had to swallow some pretty bitter pills like marriage equality. They wanted less legislation to enable their donors to get richer, fewer workers rights, and an opportunity for them to enact swingeing changes to UK law, taking us back to a Government that has absolute power. However neither camp talked about this. Because this was about Immigrants, the man in the street and the NHS.  The ordinary man. The mythical ordinary man who just couldn't understand why he couldn't smoke in a pub, or why the EU wouldn't let him eat a bendy banana. We haven't seen much from any of the Leave party bar Farage. Why? Mainly because they didn’t really think it would happen. Look at the faces of Gove and Johnson. They aren’t triumphant like Farage. Why? Because they know the huge damage they have done to the country. With Cameron resigning, they now have to figure out how to clean up a mess that could take decades. Somehow, the Leave campaign, led by an old Etonian in Johnson, another Oxbridge-ite in Gove and an ex City trader were able to convince the "ordinary man"  that the people who had their best interest at heart were the exact establishment figures who had for years ignored them. Instead of listening to financial experts, world leaders, scientists and many many economists, they voted with their hearts. Hearts that were filled with fear of the unknown by a media with their own agenda. Look at the speed at which the Daily Mail, Daily Telegraph , the Sun and the Express are back pedalling. Saying no one saw the impact on the economy (everyone did), that nothing would change regarding immigration (even though this was the only way it would....so they said) and how there would be fewer opportunities for work.  

I think of the working class people in this country who have made a decision which will impact them and their children the greatest.  All their workers rights will slowly be eroded away. All the money and backing that EU has pumped into regions like Cornwall and the North East will dry up. They thought it would be ok because the English government would easily replace the billions in infrastructure investment.  Something the Government have failed to do for decades. They thought that the liberal elite who have singularly failed to care about those depressed economic regions will do so now. They believed the mythical £350 million more a week on the NHS would receive , something which has already been denied. They saw that promise on the side of a bus, so that must be true! They thought the borders would automatically shut on June 24th like the armour in Tim Burton's Batman? Now they are being told that they won't be ...not for two years, and because of rules to be part of the EEA, probably never. Classic misdirection. Sleight of hand suggests you show the audience something dazzling in one hand (£350 million quid should suffice)  to ensure the other hand can do the mundane power mongering  bit in secret. I am sure there are many on the Leave side who are massively regretting their vote. Enough to change the result? No. I don’t believe that and it is because I think those in the regions are genuinely, legitimately upset, and have many valid reasons and concerns. However none of these were addressed by the Remain camp. Remain kept talking about the economy. These people's frustrations weren't with esoteric ideas like the economy. This was about their jobs, seeing their towns run themselves into the ground. They saw young people leaving them to ghost towns. It was easy to talk about racists as if 17 million of the people in this country are. That is a ridiculous and untrue thing to say. These communities, where closed down industries have left huge gaping holes, have been betrayed by successive governments. They have been betrayed by the press who sold them these lies so that eventually they'd end up eating themselves through how they voted.

 The Prestige

 The final part of a magic trick is the Prestige. Making something disappear isn't the trick, it is bringing it back. The behaviour of the Leave campaign was straight out of the Donald Trump guide to power. What Trump has realised is there is a huge swathe of people who don’t need facts. They don’t trust elitist ‘experts’ and vote because of what they perceive. It was no surprise that outside of London, the rest of the country voted out. That disconnect between the liberal elite (or at least that is how it is perceived) and those around the country, was far greater than anyone could believe. No one in parliament thought this would come to pass. Farage was still talking about fighting the result until it looked like he would be victorious. They traded solely on lies and appealing to the basest of human emotions. Fear of outsiders. This is a primal fear, deep in our blood. In our genes. I get it, people who don’t look like us, don’t talk like us, don’t think like us, put us in an uncomfortable position. However this referendum has shown pretty much that the country has a schism. Some allowed this fear, along with the consistent braying of the right wing press, to blind them to what was happening. They knew there was disenchantment in the UK, and as such they stoked it with their favourite bogey men.Immigrants. As a result, we have seen the return of some very ugly racism. We have seen the return of 70s style hate and suspicion. We have seen our economy bombing, losing billions, we've seen Sterling bottom out at values not seen since the 80s. We have a generational divide which will only grow bigger. We have politicians and campaigners on both sides saying they had no plan. The Brexit camp had no plan on what they would do after the referendum. Let that sink in. The people who were telling us that this would be the best thing for us, never had something in place in case they won. The Remain campaign were so sure of their victory that THEY had no plan in case they lost.

 THESE ARE OUR ELECTED OFFICIALS!

 We, the people, were asked to make a decision none of us was qualified to make. We were told lies on both sides, and no one actually stopped to listen. We are now going to enter into the most ridiculous, self inflicted, painful and possibly damaging period in recent memory. And we are basically being led by a bunch of feckless idiots. On both sides. In this turmoil, what do they choose to do? The Labour party decides to self combust, while the Tories will all be jockeying for Cameron's post as Prime Minister. All the while the disenfranchised, the jobless, the many who voted out of the EU will have fewer opportunities, less protection, and fewer prospects for their children. 

As magic tricks go, this one is shit!

DISCLAIMER: This is just a stream of consciousness, and my point of view. You have every right to disagree with me.  

[theseaofskulls-blog]

The Wreck of the Whydah

The Wreck of the Whydah

Robert Mallet sat in the red leather Chesterfield, the sofa's arm was fraying at the edges and the beige of the leather could be seen under the blood red dye. He picked at it absent mindedly with his nail as a fine dust rose into the air. The sun was dropping lower to the horizon, and the noise from the street below was changing from a rabble to a murmur. Fewer cries and shouts, and more the resigned sighs of a return home.

It was warm in his uncle's study, the wainscotting stained by what he assumed was years of smoke from the fire and the nasty habit his uncle had of smoking a carved ivory pipe. He'd spent many an hour in this room, being told tall tales about his uncle's adventures on the high seas, and as he recalled them, he felt his eyelids grow heavy. As if being pulled under the sea by a current, he fell into a deep sleep.

Voices, screaming in an language he couldn't understand, lashes of whips, cries that resonated in his very ribs. And then songs, of sadness, and hope, finished with a choking gurgle that made his heart constrict.

He woke with a jolt, the sun had dropped a few hands closer to the horizon, and the fire was now mumbling rather than spitting and crackling. He looked to the clock on the mantel, and he saw it was almost 7pm. He'd been asleep for a few hours, and he was annoyed that no one had come to wake him. He stood, flattening his mourning jacket with the palms of his hand as he did a final circuit of the study. He ran his hand through his hair as he stopped before the only painting in the room.

A three mast ship, the Whydah, was caught in the throws of a nor'easter off the coast of Cape Cod. The seas broiled and turned in thick brush strokes of grey and green. The clouds seemed loom out of the frame, while their thunderous underbellies groaned in blues and black. An bright flash of orange in the right hand corner was highlighted by a bright crack of lightening.

The dimming light played tricks with his eyes, he thought he saw the ship move, sinking ever lower. He thought he saw an arm in the water sink without a trace. A remnant from his fevered dream he thought, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles till they drew into focus.

Again, he felt himself falling under the hypnosis of that muggy room, and he stepped out into the cool, long corridor. He heard voices from the floor below, and moved towards them, his weight creaking and bending the floorboards as he went. When he reached the gallery, he saw the house staff showing out the rest of the funeral party. Only Bartholomew Roberts, an old acquaintance of his uncle, and Sarah Cox-Oort, a recently widowed lady of New York society, remained along with his uncle's solicitor Charles Block.

My dear Robert called Mr Block, now for the unseemly reading of the will. And with that, they were led into his uncle's library on the ground floor. A room much larger than the study he was in earlier, it was lined with shelf after shelf of ageing books. His uncle was never much of a reader, and so Robert was surprised to have found him living in such respected means. He'd always told Robert that once a sailor, always a sailor and his pipe smoking, drinking and whoring suggested this was very much the case. Robert was the only living heir that his uncle had known of, but Robert was sure that throughout the Indian ocean, a litany of bastards were ruing their illegitimacy. They seated themselves in the available chairs. The staff had come in and lit all the lamps, and the room now had pools of light whose edges lost the battle with the dark. They had all placed themselves in these pockets, and waited while Mr Block faffed with his glasses. In the shadows, Robert could just make out the shadow of a man. It was an indistinct shadow, and he again put it down to the emotional rigours of the day. Mr Block then began, and Robert's attention left the dark that surrounded them. 

As you will all be aware, Mr Samuel Bellamy had few friends, and those he did have perished in the sinking of his ship many years ago. Many believed he perished in that storm, but he used it as a convenient excuse to reinvent himself on the east coast. Now let me begin the reading. Mr Block cleared his throat as if to punctuate the introduction.

Herein lies that last will and testament of Samuel 'Black Sam' Bellamy, a smile played across the rooms faces, I leave Bartholomew Roberts my family seat in Hittisleigh, Devonshire, along with all my papers filed with Mr Block.

To my darling Sarah Cox-Oort, I leave my residence in London and New England, along with a monthly stipend to be administered by Mr Block and his associates until her death.

And to my 'nephew', I leave my residence in New York, all my remaining worldly wealth, under the proviso that he must not remove the picture in the study of the sinking ship, no matter the rationale.

They all looked at one another, all seemingly happy with the result. In the space of a few minutes Robert had gone from a middling clerk in a bank, to now one of the most wealthy men on the east coast of America. He sank back into his chair, thinking of the immense change that had befallen him. He'd never known how his uncle had generated so much wealth, but it was his now. All his. Fingers of greed began to tighten around his heart as a malicious smile, all teeth and narrowed eyes, dripped down his face.

There are letters for each of you, but I bid you all a good night.

With that, Mr Block left, as did Bartholomew leaving Robert and Lady Sarah. As he turned the unopened letter over in his hands, he noticed the sound in the room disappear, as if he was under water. It seemed muffled. It was only when Lady Sarah laid her gloved hand on his shoulder, that he brought himself around.

He was a cruel man Robert, there must be a trick in his will, a trick for all of us. Leave this place, ignore the blasted painting. You are rich now, you don't need these lodgings, leave here, no good will come of this.

She looked at him with her full moon eyes, they looked wet in the low light, moist and innocent. Her lips were full and red, and he could feel the blood begin to pump in his arteries. She gave him a puzzled smile, and left. The passion that had roused in him so quickly, ebbed away. He went and sat in his uncle's chair, and rang the bell.

Mr Gabriel, his uncle's butler entered. He was a tall, negro man, in his late 40s, dressed in the full regalia befitting his position as head butler in the home. He had a chain of poorly inked tattoos on his hands, and some could be seen on his neck, while he carried himself with the gait of a man who was unaccustomed to the solidity of the land.

I think I will retire for the night Mr Gabriel, could you please wake me early tomorrow, I am thinking 6am, and I would like you to show me around the house. I will have questions.

Mr Gabriel did not speak, merely nodded and left the room. It had been a long day, and with that he retired to the room that had been laid out for him, and went to bed.

*

His dreams that night were fitful and fractured. He saw terrible things beyond his own imaginations. Awful punishment and torture of shadow beings. He smelt the flint and powder of guns, and he saw the sea come and consume New York. His final ordeal was that of many wet hands clawing at his legs, looking to drag him to somewhere he had no wish to go.

He woke, his legs churning as he scrabbled up till he was seated against his headrest. Light was coming through the gap in the curtains, and he could hear the staff running about the house. Heavy footsteps. He was surprised, as he'd have thought of them as ghosts in this home, silently moving through, turning the cogs to make it work. But no, this was almost a stampede. Grabbing a dressing gown from the back of an arm chair, he wrapped himself in it and went to leave the room in a mind to reprimand the first person he met. As he left, he saw the letter he was given the previous day on the floor by the door. He hadn't left it there, he'd put it on the dresser. As he went to pick it up, he couldn't help but feel that it was damp and a bit flabby. He shook his head sharply as though throwing the final remnants of sleep from his hair and stepped out of the room.

Nothing.

He could have sworn that an entire ship's worth of men and women were rolling about, but there was  no one. He went to the gallery, and again, the home was deserted. Going down the stairs and through a methodical search of the house, he realised that he was all but alone. He walked into the library, and saw the remnants from the day before. The flotsam of guests in his new home. A discarded cigarette in an ash tray, a glass with the rapidly drying remains of rum. He pulled the bell chord, and almost immediately Mr Gabriel entered.

Mr Gabriel, I was woken this morning by a most terrible racket. Please can you ask the staff to make less of a noise when going about their duties.

No staff sir?

What do you mean Mr Gabriel, I heard them.

Only me sir.

What about those who were here yesterday? I saw them tending to guests.

They were Mr Block's men, he bring them, he take them. Mr Bellamy and Me sir, we live alone in this house.

That accounted for the poor state of some of the rooms he'd come across. Sheets covering totems and statues from far away lands and dust an inch thick on desks with sofas that smelled of dried animal skins and acrid salts. Robert's mouth was dry, he became aware of how thirsty he was, and no matter how hard he tried to concentrate on anything else, the thirst seemed to be all encompassing. Mr Gabriel was preparing the room, opening the curtains, and tending to the the fire.

I am not feeling quite myself Mr Gabriel, would you be kind enough to bring through some tea, and a light breakfast.

Very good sir. And would you then liked the tour?

Not today Mr Gabriel, I feel I have come over a tad queer.

With that, Mr Gabriel left and Robert was left alone in the room. He thought over the words Lady Oort-Cox had said, of his uncle's cruelty, but he couldn't marry this with the generosity of the will. His uncle had ensured that all three of the wills recipients were set for life. Yet like the drone of insects in summer, there was a gnawing, relentless feeling that she was right.

He pulled the letter from his dressing gown pocket and opened it. It was now dry and creased as it had lost its moisture in his gown pocket, and the letter opener cut through it with a crisp snick snick snick. He pulled from it the folded letter, and the child in him thought it would be a treasure map, or a clue that would send him on an adventure. His life as a bank clerk had been wholly uneventful, and so now that he had the chance for mischief on the high seas, he wanted it more than anything. But it was none of these things. It was a phrase, written in a quick hand, sloppy and scrawled. It merely read:

Hell has nothing more terrifying than the endless nothing of the sea.

He turned it over to see if there was anything else written on it but it was blank. He held it up to the light that was now pouring in through the opened curtains, but again nothing. Mr Gabriel entered the room with a tray, upon which was a pot of tea, and a plate of kippers and scrambled eggs. At once, all thoughts left him and he preceded to eat his breakfast with a contentment he hadn't felt since he'd come to this house. It was a slippery dish, and he chased the fish oil around the plate with a crust of bread as he finished his last mouthful. He pulled the bell and Mr Gabriel arrived to clear away the dishes.

Mr Gabriel, we need to hire some staff, please can you see that you bring in a cook, some maids to maintain the home, and a valet for myself.

Very good sir. It has been difficult in the past to find people.

Well I can't imagine it is beyond you Mr Gabriel, and I would appreciate it if you could find me a key for that writing desk over there. I'd like to examine its contents.

Very good sir.

With that, Mr Gabriel left the room, and shortly later, the house. Robert, on his own, decided that he was in no mood to explore the house on his own, and so decided instead to take some books from the shelves. Many of the tomes were maritime related, with maps of currents, and logs of journeys with cargo manifests, all richly bound, but never opened. He placed them back where he found them, and moved around the room in a slow, methodical fashion. Picking up objects and inspecting them and then returning them to their rightful place. Hours passed without incidence.

He'd come across a ship in a bottle, and having securely positioned his hands around the neck and the base, he turned it gently, peering ever closer. Again, his mind began to play tricks, he thought the sails were billowing, and as he brought it closer to his face, he thought he heard sea shanties being sung. It was then a shadow passed behind the bottle, startling him into dropping it as he stumbled back. A cry trapped in his throat as he fell to the wooden floorboards.

Mr Gabriel was quick, he lurched forward, catching the ship, but letting his new master crash onto the ground.

Mr Gabriel, you startled me said Robert pulling himself to standing. You have been gone quite a while, I am guessing you have been successful in your endeavours.

I have placed adverts in all the papers, and made it be known that you are hiring sir.

Good good, I am sure we shall have a full retinue within a week.

Here is the key to the desk you requested. Be careful sir, the past lives through ink, it is best to leave the past where it cannot influence the present.

Do you honestly believe that Mr Gabriel? It is through the ink of the past that we are civilised, that we learn from mistakes and better our lot in life.

Certain mistakes are best left at the bottom of the ocean sir.

With that, Mr Gabriel left, and again Robert was left with the hollow comfort of his words. He looked toward the writing desk, but he didn't feel like opening and reading its contents today. His uncle's note, the ship in the bottle, and Mr Gabriel's words had all combined to put him in a very disconsolate humour. He retired to bed early.

*

Weeks passed, and still not a single applicant had put themselves forward for the various positions. Robert was getting increasingly irate, at first he didn't believe that Mr Gabriel had placed the advertisements at all. This was, however, disproved when he checked his newspaper that morning. There was the advert, clearly requesting the various posts. When he asked about hiring in the coffee shops he frequented, he was often met with furtive glances, and curt dismissals. He then interrogated Mr Gabriel why this might be the case.

Maids have died in this house sir. As have valets. Said Mr Gabriel in a matter of fact tone.

Do you not think I should have been informed of these facts Mr Gabriel?

My humblest apologies sir.

Well? Said Robert, sternly staring at his butler.

Well sir?

Tell me the damned stories man. Who has died here, how? We cannot rid ourselves of the past without knowing about it.

Mr Gabriel talked, at length, about the deaths in Robert's new home. Of the valet who was found hanged, the young maid who had drowned in the bath tub or the young footman who died in his sleep, a look of horror on his contorted face, and whiplashes all over his body and face. Robert sat motionless, his mouth opening and closing in silent horror. When Mr Gabriel finished, Robert blinked in utter astonishment.

Well now I know he said, finally, you may leave Mr Gabriel.

I warned you sir, when you look on the waves of the past, they come to drown you with their stories.

Indeed Mr Gabriel.

Robert did not sleep well that night. After tossing and turning for hours, he sat up in his bed, and watched the flickering candle dance in the draft that ran through his bedroom. He thought of Mr Gabriel, and his uncle. He steeled himself to fully understand his new home on the morrow. He swung his legs from the bed and made his way to where his knee hole desk stood by the window. On it was a decanter with some fine scotch, which he poured himself. He took a slow drink, the amber liquid warming his tongue, before the smoky liquor disappeared down his throat warming him from neck to his belly. He closed his eyes, wondering why anything would perturb him at all. It was when his Dutch courage was at its peak, that he began to feel like everything was slipping away from him. He looked to his bare feet, and if he wasn't very much mistaken, from within the cracks in the floorboards a thick, dark liquid was beginning to rise. It bubbled up, and went between his toes and spread across the floor mercilessly. He tried to raise his feet, but they seemed stuck to the liquid, which was viscous and possessive. As the panic began to rise, he looked up and saw his mirror. Behind him, very definitely, stood a large man. He dropped his glass which shattered into shards as he turned. He then looked about him, he saw that he was surrounded by shapes of men. They had no eyes, chains bound their feet together, and they shuffled inextricably towards him.

It was then the groans began. First deep like molasses, an eternal pain, followed by more piercing noises. Shrieks and caterwauling of women and men. It was when the horror of the whole experience began to consume him that Robert began to shout himself. First it was a half hearted no but as the shapes got closer, his fear did too, exponentially. No he screamed, bringing his hands to his face, No no no no no and when he felt their icy, wet grips grab him, it overwhelmed him and he fell into the dark. 

*

When he came too, he was lying in his bed, morning had arrived, and Robert had never been so glad to see the sun. What an awful dream. He thought, as he pulled himself from the bed sheets which had constricted around him.

A sharp, piercing pain ran through him from his foot to behind his eyes. He cried out in agony, as he brought his foot up to inspect it. There, lodged between his big toe and the next, a shard of broken glass had sliced through his flesh. Bright red blood gushed from it as he stumbled back onto his bed. He yelled for Mr Gabriel, who arrived promptly.

Sir, how can I help?

My foot man, I have stepped on broken glass Mr Gabriel, fetch a doctor, and clean up this mess!

When Robert looked down, he saw his blood being all but drunk by the wood of the floorboards. They seemed to be soaking it all up with an almost preternatural relish.

Bring the doctor Mr Gabriel!

Robert lay back, clutching his foot, and puffing his cheeks as he drew long heavy breaths. The doctor rushed in, bag in hand, and immediately stopped in his tracks.

Sir, you seem to be very sick. He said in a blunt manner quite impolitely.

Robert had seen no one but Mr Gabriel for weeks, and had felt well in himself until the doctor claimed this.

Why, I feel the picture of health. Robert replied. Now can you please remove this wretched glass from my feet.

The doctor did as he was bid, but as he bandaged the foot, he looked on Robert with a concern that worried him. He disturbed Robert enough to make him question the doctor.

Well sir, the doctor said, you have the symptoms of malnutrition, your skin is covered in lesions and if I was to be speculative, you seem to be suffering from scurvy. Your gums have receded and you seem to be missing teeth. Have you been away at sea?

Robert looked at him puzzled while the doctor stood. I have not been away, in fact, I have been all but house bound since I inherited this building.

Well in my opinion sir, I would leave this place, it seems to disagree with you. I shall prescribe you some morphine to help moderate the pain, but I feel some time by the sea would suit you best. I shall check in on you tomorrow.

Robert knew the doctor was correct in his assumption, and so after he left, he wrote a letter to Lady Cox-Oort asking to stay with her in New England for a few weeks, under the instructions of his physician. He was going to post it himself to leave the oppressive atmosphere of his home, but when he attempted to put any weight on his foot, daggers of pain shot through his body and so he had to feebly retire to the study. He administered himself some morphine and sat back as the room began to swim.

That letter would never be sent.

In an opiate fog, he felt in his pocket and came across the key Mr Gabriel had given him for his uncle's desk. With the speed of glacier, he rose and went over to the desk. The drug dulled all his senses. He sat, and put in the key and turned it. If he had looked behind him, he would have seen a thick black tear begin to drip from behind the picture of the Wreck of the Whydah.  That tear, slowly became a stream, but in his stupor, he was preoccupied with the writings in the desk.

It told the history of his Uncle's ship, the Whydah. How he had captured it as a slave ship from Captain Lawrence Price. How the death of 55 slaves on its maiden journey had bled into the wood of the ship itself. He talked about how the moon-cussers on the east coast of Maine had worked against him and tried to seduce his lover, Maria Hallett, whom people called the Witch of Wellfleet. He talked of the ship going down, and how he, and two others were the ones who survived. John Brown of Jamaica, and Hendrick Quintor of the Netherlands. He swore them to silence,  but it was a pointless promise, they were promptly caught and hung. His uncle had recovered some driftwood from the ship and this he had turned into the wainscotting of his study.

If Robert had looked down, he'd have seen the filthy black water was up to his waist, the room full of it.

The realisation was like a rising tide, it made many of the appalling apparitions and experiences make sense. He almost smiled as the truth was mapped for him by these papers. He rested his head back against his chair, his breathing had become erratic. He was excited, scared, and a tumult of other emotions. He'd read almost everything until he came across a crude drawing. It showed what seemed to be his uncle, standing over a man who was staked to the ground. The closer he looked, the more the poor staked man reminded him of Mr Gabriel.

So now you know

Robert was roused from his stupor, and he turned to see Mr Gabriel there. He was naked, but for a loin cloth. His body was covered in scars and welts. The black water was up to their chests when they stood.

Mr Gabriel, is this, is this you?

Yes. Your uncle tied my hands and feet to stakes on the beach. He sat on a rock, and he watched the tide come for me. He told me of all the lives he'd taken. He told me how because I had questioned him, I was now bound to him, as I was bound to those stakes. Maybe it was something he'd learnt from that witch he loved?But the sea came for me, like remorseless hunter. My back become wet as I sink deeper. As the water crawled up my body, I see your uncle's face, he was as dead as the sea is a desert. He looked at me and said mine. Mine mine mine. And then sea take me. Death should travel fast, but he take me slowly, cruelly.

Robert turned to the painting on the wall, behind from which the black and bloody water was coursing down the wall. He waded over to it, grabbing the sides of the frame. With all his strength, he tore the painting from the wall, and the stream of water turned into a tsunami, knocking him backwards and beneath the dark water that surrounded him.

He fell into this wet abyss, and never surfaced alive. He felt 100 hands on his body, and try as he might to get to the surface, they held him down till the air burnt in his lungs and escaped in a stream of bubbles.

When the doctor returned th next day, he found Robert Mallet's body in a chair in his study. Puffed and bloated as if he had drowned, his lungs full of water and yet, he was dry. The doctor turned to Mr Gabriel, who was stood in the doorway.

A most curious situation Mr Gabriel. He has, and strange as this may sound, drowned.

Indeed doctor. Said Mr Gabriel.

The doctor looked to leave, when his eye caught the painting of the Whydah. What a powerful painting that is. Shame for it to go to the Government.

Please take it doctor, I know my master would be most keen for you to have it. As payment for services rendered.

The doctor looked at Mr Gabriel with suspicion but the greed overwhelmed him, and he took it from the wall. There was a strange black water mark behind it, but the doctor didn't notice, his fingers lightly caressing the frame, as he saw the waves move ever so slightly, and a hand dragged beneath the waves.