Tante Ankolee shrugged, leaning closer, various draperies seeming to pool as she took a figurative seat by Parry’s bedside, warning Rusk’s too-attentive specter away from them both with a bare, brief finger-flutter. “T’best answer that, let me now tell ya how I come on my witch-blood, Captain Parry, since ya never before think t’inquire—from both side, as it happen. The which be why that brother o’ mine able t’lay the very last of him ill-will on you by instinct alone, wit’out knowin’ he even could . . . ”
So she gave Parry the tale, same as Aphra-Maîtresse had told it to her maman, and her maman to her. How there had been three witches once found each other back in Old Scotland, swelled similar-full with talent and wickedness, who formed up a compact to do evil together and passed through the countryside like a foul wind, keeping the Devil’s sole commandment wherever they lighted: Revenge yourselves, or die.
“All manner o’ bad work they bring to conclusion, these sworn-sisters three—kill an’ eat them enemies’ unchristened babes, then boil the remnants down for flyin’ ointment; ride a man in him sleep or a girl in hers, stealin’ seed from both ta birth monsters; raise storms, sink ships, curse wit’ a touch; blast who them will an’ slave the ghosts t’do their biddin’, after. Yet wit’ one mistake only, all three find ‘emselves caught an’ clapped in the Witch-House at Eye, to wait on King James’ Burnin’ Court.”
“Which was?”
“Them trust the wrong person, o’course. Like we all apt to, most ‘specially when affection enter into things . . . ”
(And here she cast a glance back Solomon’s way, only to see him turn his head, no doubt not much liking to be reminded of his own folly, let alone the depths it’d sunk him to. But whah can ya do ‘bout it now, you great murrain? she found herself thinking, while Parry tilted his head at her once more, shrewd gaze narrowed, as though he might pry out the truth of what so amused her simply by staring closer.)
“Oh, they all roast in the end, sure enough; stake-tied and screamin’, in a lit bucket o’ pitch. But wit’ one, bein’ as fair and fancy as she was, the guards an’ tormentors take them time, which is why she able t’live far longer than either of her two gossips, since she have that big belly o’ hers t’plead on. So twelve month on, her son born just like you, Jerusalem Parry—Judas Rusk, first of the line who make Veritay Island them home, wit’ craft in him veins an’ no name t’wear out into the world but hers, no matter how many fathers him have t’choose from.”
“Is that tale designed to make me feel more . . . understanding towards Captain Rusk’s memory?”
“Nah, ‘course not. But ‘tis true enough you’d have burned th’exact way she did, if the twice son’s son of Alizoun Rusk’s boy’d not found ya so damn good t’look on, he throw his own soul away just t’put you on ya back the once . . . or more than once, if I know him.”
Parry looked down, lips quirking: Far more, she saw, in the resentful shadow of his eyes. Yet he said nothing.
“As for the cap’n, meanwhile,” she continued, “don’t surprise me all too much how he end like our ancestress, since he a fool in many ways, an’ greedy wi’ his wants, too. Yet I do think there was more than he ever suspect ‘twixt the two o’ ya, an’ more than you suspect, likewise. Think him lust could have turn t’love, eventually, if only you was to’ve seen ya way towards lettin’ it.”
That same bitter smile, sharp as when she’d last seen it, twisted his mouth yet further. “I have never had any great interest in being loved, by him most particularly.”
“Ah, ya disdainful creature! Would ya truly t’row such a gift away wi’ both hand just ‘cause it come wit’out ya beckon it, an’ never ya mind from who?”
“Why, yes indeed, madam. To my dying breath.”
Which, for all she knew any better, had most probably held true ‘til Parry himself was laid down likewise, in the end.
They had sat there a moment more, then, with Parry visibly willing himself calmer, both the rustle of breath in his iron-scarred throat and the high pulse that drove it dimming; Tante Ankolee gave a sigh, and gathered herself to go. Only to hear him ask, as she did—
“He is here, though, still—even now. I am correct in thinking so, am I not?”
She looked to Rusk’s ghost, and saw it shrug: No more secrets, big sis, not that I was ever good at keepin’ ‘em. Ye may speak as ye please. So she nodded, replying: “Aye. He be sittin’ right there beside ya, him hand on ya heart . . . an’ you can’t even go nowhere t’rid yourself of him now, either, can you? Nah wit’ that touch-o’-land-make-ya-bleed curse on ya.”
Parry gave a shudder of what seemed like pantomime disgust, as though eel-touched; what was left of Rusk turned his face away again at the sight, perhaps annoyed by such cheap dramatics. While Tante Ankolee simply snorted, similarly unimpressed; shouldn’t’ve killed a man on board his own ship, if you didn’t want his ghost hanging forevermore over your shoulder. Even those with no craft at all knew as much, most-times.
An’ you the man-witch thought joinin’ the Navy a good idea, as I recall, when the Admiralty assign one witch-finder at least t’a ship. What was’t they did teach you ‘bout the way things are in that Cornwall marsh church of yours, anyhow?
“If so, I can only assume he does not actually plan to exact vengeance unto death on me,” Parry observed, once the fit had passed, “since, though wounded, I remain still alive.”
“Do seem unlikely. So you’ve years yet t’torment each other, I’m sure, given ya both seem so bent on’t.”
“Well. We will not see each other again, then, in all likelihood—for which reason I will bid you my farewell now, madam. You have been . . . kind to me, in your way; more so than I deserve, probably.”
He gave her that carved-ivory profile of his once more, still blood-besmeared under its healing-spell’s glow, all unknowing how doing so angled him straight into Solomon Rusk’s view, putting him exactly where the man he’d killed could look his fill, yet never be entirely satisfied. So the man he’d murdered for violated honor’s sake might forever study him in the same hungry way others might some religious book, the far horizon, or their own newborn child.
Thinking only to herself, since speaking it aloud would do no earthly good at all: Fah shame. What-all you two done t’each other, wi’ your ridiculousness an’ botheration? What-all ya done to yourselves?
Turned the coolly assessing eyes of her soul on devil-proud Jerusalem Parry a last time, before replying—
“P’raps. For as much harm been done t’you, ‘tis undeniable how ya done equal-much harm, in return—just like me poor Solomon, in that way. So, in the end, might be what you two most deserve . . . ”
(you and him, both)
“ . . . is each other.”
The next morning brought another survivor, a ship’s carpenter named Mipps who claimed to have both taken Rusk’s fabled Articles and spent almost a month aboard what Tante Ankolee had begun to call (in her own mind only, thus sparing poor Captain Collyer’s feelings) the Bitch Resurrecta. His allegiance had gone to Parry rather than Rusk, a decision he did not regret even though it’d ended badly, at least for him.