Salvager's Rights

  Salvager’s Rights

  By

  Pella Georgina Douglas



  1796: Somewhere along the north-east coast of England.

  Thorne hurried along the cliff top, leading the others behind him.  The clouds above were being rendered apart by a voracious wind, revealing a distant sun setting in a scarlet sky.  Buffeted and jostled, he was forced to keep a hand on his tricorne hat for fear of losing it.

Beneath the hat was a young old face whose true age was betrayed by the lines beneath its blue eyes and the grey trim that edged a well maintained goatee. Another gust of wind caused his long, blue seaman’s coat to flare out, revealing a broad torso that was covered by a white linen shirt and a thick red sash bound around his waist. A brace of evil looking flintlock pistols were tucked into the sash, but neither looked as wicked as the sword that swung like a pendulum at his side.

    ‘There she is, Admiral,’ Tom said, tugging on his sleeve and pointing into the distance. ‘Just like I said she was.’

    Thorne looked at the boy by his side. He could plainly see the need for approval in the boy’s face; his wide eyes shining. Thorne acknowledged him with a nod and stared into the fading light. Below was a beach that appeared on few maps and at its edge he could make out the dark silhouette of a three-masted merchantman as it leaned to one side, slowly dying. It had been impaled on jaw-like rocks that were only now beginning to emerge from the sea. He took a battered brass telescope from his pocket and focused on the wreck. He could just make out barrels bobbing up and down in the water as the cargo spilled out of a jagged hole in the side of the vessel. From here it looked like blood oozing from an open wound. He lowered the telescope, but continued to gaze into the distance, an expression of hunger haunting his face.

    ‘Aye, boy,’ he said, reluctantly turning away. ‘Yer’ve found a rare prize and no mistake. Yer’ve done me proud, yer have.’

    He ruffled Tom’s mouse-brown hair in appreciation. Tom grinned, pride lighting up his face. Thorne turned away, eagerly addressing the men that followed him.

    ‘Quickly now, lads,’ he said. ‘The weather’s done most of the work for us, but we’ll lose the cargo if we don’t get a move on.’

    And with that he was bounding along the ghost of a path that led down the side of the cliff. When he reached the bottom, the last of rays of sunlight were glinting off the waves as they clawed fitfully at the shore. Each motion was slightly weaker than the last, as the tide reluctantly loosened its grip and receded towards the horizon. The wind was much gentler here, chastened by the lee of the cliff and weighed down by the salt tang of the sea. There were footsteps behind as him as the others caught up.

    ‘Right lads,’ he said. Sling yer hooks and get the loose ones in first before we see what’s left of the ship.’

    Though the words were easy going, there was urgency in his voice that spoke of his hidden desires. He licked his lips, imagining the worth of each barrel floating in the undulating waters.

    ‘What will you do with your share, Admiral?’ Tom asked, as they stood watching the men casting their ropes and nets into the sea.

    ‘What?’ Thorne replied, coming out of his reverie. ‘Oh, that’s an easy one: Keep it.’          

    ‘Keep it?’ The boy replied, ‘Why not live like a king, lording it up in all the inns and taverns?’

    ‘Just watch yer mouth, boy.  How I live my life is my business, not yours.’

    ‘Just saying is all.’

    ‘Well, start by giving yer mouth a rest, boy. And then maybe that brainpan of yers will start working.’

    Tom fell silent, but his youth worked against him and he was soon speaking once more.

    ‘I’m gonna spend mine on all the fine ale I can drink and as many doxies as it takes to exhaust me,’ he said.

    Thorne chuckled at the boy’s words. They reminded him of his own youth long ago, and his own first steps towards manhood.

    ‘Ain’t yer a bit young for that sort of thing, boy?’ he asked.

    ‘Oh? And how old were you when you first started wenching?’ Tom said defensively.

    ‘Fair point,’ Thorne replied with a shrug, ‘but yer best leaving well alone and keep yer coin, boy.’

    ‘What’s the point of money if you can’t spend it?’ Tom replied.

    ‘A man with money can go far in this world,’ Thorne told him. ‘But a pauper doesn’t get anywhere in life.’

    The red sky turned mauve and then deep blue as the men gathered in the loose cargo and high above, the first stars twinkled in the gaps between the ragged clouds. It was hard, back breaking work and they sang shanties to keep themselves going.

As the water retreated, Thorne moved closer to the ship, inspecting the damage from the storm. Most of the sails and rigging had been torn away and what was left flapped fitfully in the breeze. The central mast had snapped and fallen, destroying most of the upper deck. Only the white painted letters that named the vessel seemed pristine, and the name Christobel glowed in the fragile light. There was something about the ship that made Thorne feel uneasy, a wrongness that he could not quite grasp. He spat into the sand and turned away.

    ‘Go find Rusty, boy,’ he said to Tom. ‘And we’ll see what bounty Cristobel is still keeping from us.’

    Soon after, the three of them were scrambling over the slimy kelp that coated the rocks. After several slips and slides, they reached the tear in the side of the ship. The darkness that greeted them was unwelcoming and Thorne found himself reluctant to step forwards into the gloom. He took a deep breath and plunged inside.

    The cargo hold was cold, colder than it had a right to be. In the torchlight, Thorne could see the steam of his own breath rising towards the high beamed ceiling. It was the sort of chill that passed easily through clothes, skin and even blood. It settled in the bones and stayed there. He shivered, struggling to keep the reaction hidden from his companions, but if they noticed, nobody said a word.

    Barrels, boxes and crates rose out of the gloom, casting long shadows into the small circle of spluttering light; few were undamaged by the violence of the wreck. The others clustered close to the light making Thorne feel claustrophobic from their proximity. He pushed his way forward but Tom and Rusty followed right behind him.

    A glimmer of metal reflected in the torchlight, catching Thorne’s attention.  The box that he found was over five feet length, but it was impossible to say exactly how long, as it was made of ebony and the edges blended into the surrounding darkness.  It was bound in decorated silver and that was what had caught the light. The metal was filled with ornate scroll work and imitation bas reliefs of grotesque figures. Thorne knew straight away what he was looking at.

    ‘It’s a coffin,’ he said, half to himself.

      He felt rather than saw the others recoil from the casket.

    ‘Don’t worry, lads,’ he said. ‘The dead can’t hurt yer, only the living can do that, as my old mother used to say.’

    ‘It’s got be worth a bob or two,’ Rusty said. ‘All that silver, I mean.’

    They called him ‘Rusty’ because of the copper-brown colour of his skin. Thorne had always wondered where the man had come from. He was too light for Africa and yet too dark for the Mediterranean climes. He wore an ill-fitting shirt over a thin body and his dark hair was short with a wiry texture. He was young, but several years older than Tom, and creases on his face bore evidence of hard life. His accent was thick, betraying nothing of his origins – of which he had always refused to speak.

    ‘What do you think it’s worth then?’ said Tom.

    ‘I dunno, but I’ll bet it’s a king’s ransom,’ Rusty replied, ‘Here, give me a hand.’

    Together they tried to lift the casket.

    ‘It’s no good,’ Rusty said with a grunt. ‘It’s too heavy.’

    ‘Corpses don’t weight that much,’ Tom said, breathing heavily.’ Here, perhaps this fella’s been buried with all of his gold.

    ‘Move out of the way, yer pox-ridden pair of mollys.’ Thorne said.

    They eased the coffin back down and stepped away. Thorne licked his lips and passed his torch to Tom. The casket opened without a sound, but before he could lift the lid more than an inch, a grey, smoke-like mist slithered through the gap and hung momentarily over the coffin. It floated off beyond the torchlight and into the darkness of the ship’s interior.          

    Thorne fell back, coughing and spluttering as a stench rose in the air and the others began to gag and wretch behind him. He stumbled towards the tear in the side of hull, and once there, he stood taking great gulps of the clean air. He spat, several times into the sea; a vain effort to clear the foul taste that lingered in his mouth. When he was finished, he pulled a black bandana from his pocket and tied it around his face so that it covered his nose and mouth. The others followed suite and Thorne laughed; they looked like a gang of highwaymen.

    Keeping as much distance as he could, Thorne kicked at the lid of the coffin with his heel. It flew backwards and once more the smell threatened to over power them, despite their masks.

    The interior of the coffin was lined with a silk that was the colour of a rich wine, but other than a thick layer of grey dust, it was empty. Thorne reached in and took handful. He looked at the stuff in the palm of his hand and ran his thumb through it, before letting it trickle through his fingers, back to where it belonged.

    ‘Dirt,’ he said in a puzzled tone of voice.

    ‘Where’s the body?’ Tom said.

    Thorne didn’t reply. Instead, he took his sword and slashed open the silk and banged its tip against the bottom of the casket, searching for hidden compartments.

    ‘There’s no gold either,’ he said with a frown.

    He sheathed his sword and kicked the lid shut again, his disappointment as palpable as the smell of decay in the air.

    ‘Find some rope so we can lower it off the ship, Rusty’ he said. ‘I’ve had my fill of it. Come on Tom, let’s have a look round.’

    ‘But what about the body?’ said Tom.

    ‘What do yer what with a corpse for anyhow?’ Thorne shrugged. ‘C’mon, let’s go.’

    He marched further into the hold without looking back. Tom stared at Rusty. They both shrugged and then Tom turned away. He ran to catch up, leaving Rusty to struggle with the casket.

    Eventually they found another tear in the hold, one that led to the upper decks. They soon found themselves in the part of the ship that was reserved for the crew. It was a communal area with very little space. Hammocks that had once swung from the ceiling were strewn across the floor alongside various personal possessions. There were no signs of any of the crew.

    ‘Let’s see if we can find anything valuable, boy,’ Thorne said to Tom.

    Their search didn’t take long and they amassed a wealth of little treasures, including a fob watch, a box of snuff, a very fine silk handkerchief and a small amount of brass coins.

    ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Tom said, as he examined a particularly fine example of a seaman’s knife. ‘They wouldn’t leave this sort of stuff behind.’

    ‘The storm, boy,’ Thorne said, as he prised open a deck hatch. ‘Remember the storm. They must have abandoned the ship in a hurry, I know I would have.’

    ‘I don’t know,’ Tom replied. ‘You wouldn’t leave your money for a start.’

    ‘Yer can puzzle it out later, boy,’ Thorne said. ‘There’s work to be done, now stop lollygagging and get a move on, before I give you a clip round the back of the head.’

      Tom gathered their trinkets in a scrap of cloth and a moment later and they were on deck. In a different world, far away, Thorne’s men had made a cheery fire on the beach. They were still singing shanties, laughing, and probably drinking rum. Here, on the main deck, however, they were greeted by the same smell of decay from below; it corrupting the clean air of the sea. The surf hissed and seagulls cried, as if defiled by the lingering aroma. Both Thorne and Tom slid their bandanas back over their faces and advanced cautiously, trying to avoid the worst of the wreckage.

    ‘We’ll head for the Captain’s cabin,’ Thorne said, trying to ignore the smell. ‘We’ll find the ship’s papers there and anything that’s too valuable to entrust to the crew.’

    Tom nodded his agreement but didn’t answer. His attention was caught on the edge of the torchlight. Something was moving slowly at the edge of the circle, creeping away into the night. Silently, he nudged Thorne, who took a step forward.  The thing flinched as the torchlight touched it and the movement stopped. Thorne took another step closer and the thing revealed itself.

    It was a girl, bunched up and quivering beneath a shroud of torn sail cloth. She clawed her way, on hands and knees, along the deck, trying to avoid the flickering light. Tom rushed forward and grabbed her. She struggled weakly at first but then she went limp and collapsed into his arms.

Thorne studied her, uncertain what to do. Survivors of a wreck meant no salvage rights, but he couldn’t kill her in cold blood, could he? He looked his weapons and then back at the girl, weighing up his options.

      Now that he could see her properly, he could make out that she was no longer a child; she was small, but too well shaped. He guessed that she was sixteen years of age, perhaps seventeen. Certainly, she was no older than that. A glint of gold around her neck flashed in the torchlight. He could see the hint of a medallion resting in the cleft of her chest. Her skin was grey and huge flakes of it were pealing away, as if she were shedding like a snake. Her lips were tinged with a dark, unwholesome blue and her breathing was shallow. Dark circles surrounded her closed eyes and unkempt black hair clung lifelessly to her skull. She trembled in the Tom’s arms and every so often a spasm rippled through her entire body. Her left hand clutched the sail cloth above her abdomen whilst her right gripped Tom’s arm.

    ‘So weak,’ she said, without opening her eyes. ‘Please…. I need food.’

    ‘Don’t worry miss, you’re safe now,’ Tom replied, unaware of his companion’s thoughts. What’s your name?’

    ‘Where’s the crew?’ Thorne interrupted. ‘Are there any other survivors?’

    ‘No one else, they’re all gone,’ the girl shook her head. ‘They went to the bottom of the sea. She feeds on them now, her and the fishes. They feast while I starve.’

    ‘She’s delirious,’ said Tom.

    Her eyes flickered open; dark, empty eyes as lifeless as the rest of her. Another quiver ran through her fragile body and when it was done she looked up into his face.

    ‘So hungry …,’ she said. ‘You’ll feed me won’t you? I’ll pay you back in kind.’

    Her voice was suggestive and she fluttered her eyelashes at him. Tom was mesmerised, unable to look away, despite his best efforts. Thorne shifted and reached towards his pistol.

    ‘Step away, boy,’ he said.

    Tom turned and looked at him with a puzzled expression. And then comprehension dawned on him.

    ‘You can’t …’ he said, struggling with the words.

    ‘I said step away!’

    With a cry, Tom turned back to the girl, his hand rising to shield her. He stopped suddenly, frozen in place by the sight before him. The girl’s mouth was opened unnaturally wide and her teeth were long, sharp and iridescent white. Saliva dripped between those fangs, a long transparent string that ended in a single drop. Her eyes were half closed, fluttering rapidly and the expression on her face as she strained her neck upwards towards his throat was one of eternal craving.

    Time slowed to a leaden pace as those gleaming teeth pressed urgently against the creamy softness of his unblemished neck. Then everything happened at once. He felt her teeth scrapping against his skin, heard the shot and smelled with amazing clarity, the scent of used gunpowder.

    The girl screamed as she was flung towards the remains of the central mast. The sail cloth fluttered away in the breeze, revealing her naked figure. Dark blood, almost purple in colour, blossomed from a neat hole below her right breast. Tom staggered backwards, his hand clutched against his neck.

    Thorne drew his second pistol and the girl hissed at him like an angry animal. He cocked the hammer, but before he could take his shot, she vanished, becoming a mist barely distinguishable from the surrounding night. It fled, curling like smoke, towards the deck hatch. A moment later it was gone. Thorne examined the boy, his hand shaking as he did so.

    ‘Are yer alright, boy?’ he said, but his normally gruff, confident voice seemed thin and weak to his own ears.

    ‘I…think so,’ Tom replied. ‘She … she was trying to bite me.’

    Tom’s neck was unscathed apart from the lightest of scratch marks, but his face was white with terror. There were dark stains on his trouser leg and boots culminating in a pool on the deck. His entire body was shaking.

    ‘What … was she?’ he said, tears beginning to form in the corner of his eyes.

    ‘I don’t know, boy,’ Thorne replied, turning quickly and heading back the way they had came.  ‘Stay here.’

    He paused at the deck hatch reluctant to take another step. The darkness below him was absolute. He turned to see Tom watching him intently and that spurred him on. He covered his fear with the pretext of reloading his pistols. With a grim expression on his face, he descended into the belly of the ship.          

    He used the torch like a miniature lighthouse, constantly sweeping it from left to right, never stopping in one place. The hand clutching his pistol was beginning to ache from the tightness of his grip. He tried to relax it, but found his fingers were locked around the butt of the weapon. Each step that he took became slower and slower until he was barley moving at all. He was surrounded by the now familiar scent of decay and it grew stronger as he passed through the crew quarters of the vessel. He crept silently towards the cargo hold.

    A scream echoed throughout the ship and Thorne found himself running despite his fear.  He entered the cargo hold and was just in time to see Rusty collapsing to the deck; the girl’s mouth locked on his neck. Like a leech, her body was pulsating obscenely. Once copper coloured flesh was now dull and tinged with grey. In his heart, Thorne knew that he was too late to save his friend. But still, he raised his pistol and took a step closer, to get a clear shot.

    The wooden planks creaked beneath his feet and betrayed his presence. The girl’s head snapped upwards as she released her deadly grip on Rusty. She rose slowly to her feet, her unblinking eyes never leaving his.

    She was still naked, except for the gold medallion that hung around her neck, and she was filled with an unwholesome vitality. Her form was perfect and a trifle more than pleasing to his eye. Her skin was smooth and less pallid than before, showing no signs of the moulting he had seen above deck. Her hair was glossy and full, shimmering in the flickering light of the torch, but it was her eyes that captured his attention despite her more obvious attributes; bright green, they mesmerised him with the intensity of her stare. She smiled and a trickle of blood oozed from the side of her mouth and rolled unheeded down her chin. Drips formed at the edge her flesh and fell, splattering against wooden deck. She stepped over Rusty’s copse with the contempt of a cat. The tremors that had wracked her body had gone and her movements were liquid and wickedly nonchalant.

    ‘You followed me,’ she said, ‘how sweet of you.’

    ‘Only to send to yer back to the hell yer came from,’ Thorne replied.

    His finger tightened around the trigger of his pistol and there was a satisfying report as it discharged. Smoke, light and sound filled the cargo hold, but when it cleared, the girl was nowhere to be seen. From the darkness came a single peal of laughter.

    ‘Then you’ll have to do better than that,’ her disembodied voice mocked.

    ‘Where are yer, witch?’ he called out, dropping the empty weapon and pulling the second pistol from his sash.

    ‘I’m right here,’ she replied.

    She appeared at the very edge of the torchlight, sauntering around its perimeter. He turned to face her and take his second shot, but he was too slow. Her hand flicked out with surprising speed and nails as sharp as knives raked across his wrist. He cried out as he dropped his gun to the deck. She smiled and raised her fingers to her lips. One by one, she licked them clean, savouring the taste of his blood.

    ‘This is my hunger,’ she said when she was done. ‘What’s yours?’

    Thorne said nothing, but his eyes involuntarily dropped to the gold medallion that hung between her breasts. She smiled and toyed with the necklace until it caught the torchlight. It sparkled and glistened hypnotically and Thorne found himself taking a step forward.

    ‘This little thing?’ she said, still playing with the medallion. ‘It’s yours if you can take it,’

    Her words spurred Thorne into action. He yanked his sword from its scabbard and advanced, swinging it wildly before him. She took step after step backwards, staying just outside of his reach. Suddenly, he plunged forwards, feinting with his torch whilst swinging his sword in a broad arc. The blow caught her on the shoulder, leaving a thick line of dark blood seeping from her skin.

    ‘Close,’ she said, ‘but you’ll have to take either my head …’

    In mid-sentence she vanished, her body dissolving into the grey mist that was quickly devoured by the darkness. A second later, he felt her cold breath on the back of his neck and her hand slide down his spine. Her nails cut effortlessly through thick cloth and dragged themselves through his skin, drawing more blood. He shivered as the pain mingled with a sudden surge of unwanted pleasure.

      ‘… or my heart,’ she finished, pressing herself against him and sliding her hand round to the front of his body. She rested her head against his shoulder, but he pushed backwards, knocking her away. He whirled around, but she was already gone.

She appeared again, this time to his right. The sword was knocked from his hand, and it skittered noisily across the floor. He desperately sought the pistol that he had dropped and he let out a sigh of relief when spotted it. He bent down to pick it up, but his reward was a blow to his stomach. He screamed as needles of pain penetrated the soft flesh of his paunch. He doubled over coughing and spluttering. Another blow sent him sprawling backwards and he fell to the floor.

      Then the grey mist of the girl hovered above him for a moment. He tried to roll away, but it coalesced into her physical form and she straddled him.

    ‘Of course,’ she said softly, ‘we don’t have to fight.’

    He struggled beneath her weight, but her thighs were clamped around his waist and her hands pressed firmly down on his shoulders. There was a solidity about her that he could not reconcile with the trembling girl that he and Tom had found on the upper deck. His disbelief turned to frustration and then anger. From there he felt the first stirrings of panic and terror; for try as he might, he could not dislodge her.

    As his struggles became more desperate, she began to sing a wordless melody, a lullaby that spoke of childhood comforts and a protective mother.  His struggles became weaker and eventually they stopped altogether. He stared up at her, his eyes filled with fear and wonder.

    ‘Much better,’ she crooned. ‘It’s so much easier if you don’t try to fight it.’

    He was limp beneath her and she relaxed her grip. She ran her hands through his thick, curly hair and continued to make reassuring sounds. He reached up and touched the medallion that dangled from her chest, enjoying the cold beauty of the metal. She removed it from his grasp, but his hand lingered. He gently caressed her breast; her skin was soft and respondent to his touch. His breathing became shallow as the pain surrendered to something else.

    ‘Yes,’ she breathed.

    She closed her eyes and tossed back her head, a wicked smile playing about her lips. Her hands grasped his shoulders once again, her nails biting deep through cloth and flesh. He moaned and her head came forwards again, descending towards him. She pressed her lips to his and they kissed.

    ‘Give yourself to me,’ she said they parted, ‘and I promise you riches and pleasures untold.’

    He tried to reply but she laid a finger on his lips. She lightly kissed his forehead and his mind was aflame with lust and desire. Her kisses touched his nose, his cheek, and then his chin. He rolled his head to one side, allowing her access to his neck. Her smile became a triumphant smirk and she descended upon him.

    ‘The hunger is a cruel master at first,’ she whispered, ‘always craving for your attention, but you get used to it. It is no different from any other kind of feeding and such a small price to pay.’

    Her words awoke something inside him and his struggles began afresh, but it was too late: Her teeth bit deeply into his flesh and he began to feel colder as she sucked the life from his body.

    ‘Shhh,’ she said in his mind, ‘Sleep now and when you awake we will feed.’

    He obeyed her and felt himself being pulled downwards into unconsciousness. The gunshot awoke him; the furious explosion was followed by a silence that was only disturbed by the distant sound of seagulls crying out in surprise. The weight that had been pressing down on him was gone. He opened his eyes to see a face looming above him. Details escaped him for the moment, but it was young, pale and wide eyed. He flinched, jerking his head away from it and cried out as molten pain flowed freely through his neck.

    ‘Easy now, Admiral,’ a voice said.

    Thorne blinked until his vision was clear.

    ‘Tom?’ he said, clamping his hand over the wound in his neck.

    The boy was sat cross-legged, cradling Thorne’s head in his hands and leaning anxiously over him.

    ‘Aye, Admiral, it’s me, alright.’

    ‘Thank God for small mercies,’ Thorne said.

    He shuddered and groaned, but with Tom’s help he managed to get himself into a sitting position. The two looked at each other, relief evident on both of their faces.

    ‘Where is she?’ Thorne said at last.

    ‘Over in the corner,’ Tom replied. ‘I shot her, I did, Admiral. She wasn’t seeing anything but your neck, so I picked up your gun and got real close. I shot her right in the side of the ‘ead.’

    Although his words were full of bravado, Thorne could see the tightness around his eyes. Thorne patted Tom on the shoulder and the boy smiled gratefully.

    ‘Help me up, boy.’   

    With Tom’s help, Thorne got to his feet and carefully looked around. The girl was sprawled luridly on the deck. Half of her head was missing, and blood and brains were beginning to congeal over what was left. Her body was twitching with convulsing, but somehow she was still alive. She was trying to rise. The motion disturbed Thorne more than anything else that had happened that night and without hesitating, he picked up his sword and decapitated her. He waited until the body had stopped moving completely before he reached down and gingerly took the gold medallion from her neck.

    ‘Salvager’s rights,’ he said, mostly to himself.

    A spasm ran through his body and he sank to his knees. He vomited for quite sometime. When he was finished, he was out of breath and panting like an animal. Another spasm shook his body and the hand holding his sword began to tremble. His vision blurred for a moment, but cleared. He turned to say something to Tom, but he stopped short. There was something about the boy he had never seen before. Something …, he tried to think of the right word for it; something … appetizing. He eyes widened with realisation and the medallion dropped, forgotten, from his hand. In the pit of his stomach he began to feel the first pangs of true hunger.