Professor Angus Trilby

"What? What say yea?" Angus bellowed at the sailor who had just informed him of the bad news. "Sorry, sir, but there's no helping it. We musta hit a reef, or maybe a whale bumped us. Coulda been anything." Angus snorted. "Whale? Yea ninny. More like the incompetence of yon pilot." He gestured to the scrawny man draped over the wheel, clearly drunk. "We were supposed to land in Charles Town. Now yea say we're landing on some island yea never heard of? Then, I want my passage fee returned tae mae. Ye hear! And the fee I paid for my servant. I'll want that back as weel." "You'll have ta ask the captain 'bout that, sir. We're pretty close to the island. Captain says we should see her before noon, meybe. Best make ready to take your things to shore. Not sure how long we'll be stuck there." Resisting the urge to smack the man, Angus said, "Fine then. But I'll want a wee word with the Captain as soon as we're on shore. And throw that bloody pilot tae the sharks!"

Port Royal, Jamaica. Angus placed the last Da Vinci barometer into a packing crate and stood back to survey the mountinous pile of other crates, boxes and bags in his parlor. On the following day, some hired men would come and transport each one to the Sweet Temptation, and he would leave Port Royal for good. For the last month his whiskers had been twitching, his joints aching, and he'd swear even his hair hurt, what was left of it. They were portents, he was sure of it, of some coming disaster. In the last year he'd survived fire and a hurricane, but before neither of these had he had any warning signs. This was different. This was something biblical, and he wasn't sticking around to find out what it was going to be. "Souris, ye wee deevil, where are ye?" Angus looked around for the young Jamaican servant. "Here, suh. I jus getting the cage fo Miss Cleopatra." He held up a cane cage that would be the cat's home throughout most of the voyage. "Well, best not put her in there until tomorrow. Like as not she'll put up a hellish fuss, but I can't see leaving her behind to suffer through what's tae come. Are all your things packed?" "Yes, suh." Angus signed, scrubbed his balding head, then replaced the squashed-mushroom looking hat he always wore. "Tomorrow we head for the colonies, laddy. Bastion of puritanical idiocy, but the only place where I might find work. Teacher! Can ye imagine it? But I've nae money at the moment, and we will step on shore at Charles Town poor as church mice." "Mus we really go, suh. I like Port Royal." A zing of pain shot through Angus's shinbone. "Yes, lad, we must go. I dinnah ken what's coming, but if I were a religious man, I'd say God has had enough o' this sinful spit o' land, and plans tae wipe it clean."

Souris, standing well back, pointed at the strange man. "Whot be wrong with him?" Trilby, busy washing the man's wounds, barked, "Dreaming of hell, I ken. Nae doubt he'll end up there soon enough." "I tink da fires of dat dark place already touched him. He look burnt as a roasted pig." Souris peered closer. "What dat brand mean? I never seen it before." "Nor hae I, but I nae think he got it for good behavior. Here now, make yourself useful and bring me that salve from the study. Quick, blast ye, before this monster wakes up." While Souris scooted off to the study, Trilby took a length of rope and tied the man's hands and feet. "Best tae play it safe. He may wake and think I'm one of the deevil's minions he's dreaming aboot." Then Trilby paused and smiled. "Which, I weel be, if he's the man I ken he is." Souris returned with the salve, and Trilby finished his work. Then the two stood back and waited for the strange, disfugured man to wake up.

Trilby continued to peer at the sleeping monster. His curiosity turned to anger, and he swung around to rail at Souris. "Ye ninny! Why did ye bring yon gargoyle to mae house? Havena always said I'm nae a doctor!" Souris, long used to his masters outbursts, merely shrugged. "You had lots o' sick people commin' to your door lately. Didn't think dis mon any different. He hurt bad." "Hmph! Drunk as well, I'd suspect. But I've nae medicines that would help what's been done to him." Trilby leaned in, examining the ruined face. It was hardly human, and yet...there was something, some vague memory that tugged at the back of his mind. A call to the ship Rakehell, where a man supposedly lay dieing. And had not that she-witch, Ransom, told him of a man, burned, branded and left for dead? Yet he'd never heard the man's name. Carefully, so as not to wake the sleeping guest, Trilby undid the man's weskit and shirt. There, grisly amid the other burns on the man's body, was the brand, still raw-looking, though completely healed. "Hounds of the deevil," Trilby whispered. Souris stepped back, is eyes wide in his young face. "Dat not a devil hound, Master, dat the devil hisself!" "For once, Souris, I you may be right. For I know this man tae be a murderer, and I've a niggling feeling I've met him before, a long time ago. If that be the case, then say whatever prayers ye ken, for neither God nor the deevil will stop me from rending justice. But for now, fetch me some hot water and a few cloths. We'll clean him up a bit, and then we'll make sure just who our wretched guest is, before I pass judgment and carry out the sentence. Quick now, before he wakes up!"

Trilby was enjoying the relatively cooler night air and the slight breeze that the terrace afforded, when he saw the young maid approach the doorway across the lane. He saw her look up, her face pinched with worry, and for the hundredth time that day, wondered who the man in the window had been, for she was obviously afraid of going inside. On impulse, he leaned out over the half-wall and called, “Oi, lassie, ye seem a wee bit fearful of yon mister. Would ye be telling me who he is, for I think I’ve seen his like before, but I’m nae sure. It was a quick wink only I got of him as he stood in the window this morning, sae I couldna really tell. Truth is, I thought the man tae be daid these many months, ye ken, sae I could be mistaken.”

Trilby spent most of the day in the dimness of his study, carefully eviscerating a bright jungle bird brought to him by a native boy, in exchange for a small bag of sugar. The bird, the size of a English robin, was then placed in a jar of salt to cure the delicate hide and feathers. When finished, the mummified carcass would be added to Trilby’s collection of flora and fauna, started ever since he’d arrived in Jamaica some ten years ago. It was dusk, and Souris, his house boy, was fixing supper. To Trilby’s trained nose, it smelled like something with a lot of peppers. Retrieving a decanter of Madeira, and a fine crystal glass from the sideboard, he once again climbed the stairs to the upper floor, and the outdoor terrace, inwardly congratulating the Spaniard who had originally designed the house. After the rain, the terrace tiles glistened in the setting sun, and water dripped from the cane shade-cloth. Unfortunately, Souris had not retrieved the pillows in time, and they slumped in soggy heaps on the chairs. “Blasted boy!” Trilby muttered, putting down the decanter and glass. He tossed the sodden pillow from his chair, took the edge of his robe and dried the seat, poured himself a glass of wine, and settle in to enjoy the sunset. His eyes were drawn, however, not the the glory of the setting sun, but to the house across the way. To his dismay, no figure stood at the window, which only fueled Trilby’s desire to know who the man was. A crunching at his feet made Trilby glance down. Cleopatra, her tail switching, chewed vigorously on a large beetle. His scientific eye noticed it was not one included in his collection, but he knew better than to attempt to pull the insect from the cat’s mouth. To emphasize the point, Cleopatra gave a low growl, and continued crunching. “Evil tempered mauggie,” Trilby muttered, then sipped his wine, all the while keeping one squinted eye on the window across the way.

Trilby came away from the terrace half-wall, still puzzling over who he’d seen on the balcony across the lane. Ignoring the rum left in the coconut shell, he headed indoors, passing the reconstructed dog skeleton which guarded the entryway — the former wolfhound faithful in death as it had been in life. It currently had the humiliating job of hat stand, as three straw sun hats in various degrees of disintegration, were crookedly stacked on the heavy skull. Once inside, Trilby descended the stairs and headed for is study. The air was cool and smelled of herbs, chemicals, and sulfur. He glanced quickly at the Da Vinci barometer. For the past two days its small glass globes had been slowly sinking, warning of a coming storm. Well, Trilby thought, this house has withstood more than one hurricane, it could withstand one more, should it come to that. He filled his pipe with a particularly noxious Turkish tobacco, lit it, and settled back to think. How could a dead man come back to life? Trilby wondered. How could a man beaten, branded, and burned survive? Yes, Ransom had described the wounds suffered by Killingsworth, as it had been she and her crewe who had rescued him from the island. Then he’d been kidnaped from her ship with the collusion of that blackguard, Ioan. No one knew where Killingsworth had disappeared to, until it was reported he’d been murdered. Even with such compelling evidence, Trilby was certain the man who had relieved himself on Master and Mistress Tennant, was the same man who, years ago, had raped and murdered the young girl who had been Trilby’s housekeeper while he was still a professor at Oxford. If Trilby could prove Killingsworth was still alive, he had only to report the fact to the Devereaux’s to exact his revenge on the man, and let that clan finish the work they had so artfully started.

Souris broke into giggles, and pointed over the wall. "Some gent has pissed all over Master Tennant." Trilby left his chair and walked to the half-wall. He could see and hear Master Tennant shouting invectives at a figure standing in a balcony across the lane, and above the merchant and his wife. Trilby grinned. "Ye seem tae hae come tae a wee bit o' grief, there Master Tennant." Tennant and his wife both turned. Tennant shouted, "That man pissed on me! Pissed on my wife as well. He's ruined my cabbages. I'll have the law on him." Chuckling to himself, Trilby replied, "Weel, with your good wife already smelling o' cabbages, a bit o' piss will hardly be noticed. And half the time, your cabbages be rotten or worm ridden. Ye've suffered nae loss that I can see." Trilby then focused his attention on the man who had done the dousing. Suddenly all feelings of mirth left him, as a memory flooded back into his mind. Surely it couldn't be? That blackguard was dead. Or was he? The body was never found. Trilby squinted his old eyes, trying to get a better view of the man, but he withdrew into the room behind him, foiling Trilby's attempts to identify him.

In a cushioned chair, Professor Angus Trilby, like some Turkish Pasha, sat under the cane shade of his rooftop terrace, sipping from a half coconut. It’s watery milk was fortified with a healthy shot of dark rum. On his head, protecting his semi-bald pate, was a turban-type coil of grubby cloth, which matched the equally grubby scholar's robe covering his stocky frame. Tufts of graying red hair sprouted from under the turban, and grew from his upper lip. It also, like two rufus caterpillars, hedged each of his piecing blue eyes. Currently, those blue eyes were fixed on his Jamaican servant boy, Souris, a former starveling he’d found half dead behind one of the numerous taverns in Port Royal. “What’s all that buidy racket below?” he growled, his thick Scot accent becoming even worse when he was riled about something. Souris, used to his savior’s odd ways, merely shrugged. “Don know, suh.” “Well then look, blast you.” The boy walked to the half-wall which confined the terrace, and peered over into the street below. “Master Tennant has knocked his wife onta the street again. He’s throwing cabbages at her.” Master Tennant was one of the many vendors who plied their wares from carts or baskets hauled through the many streets of the city. He and his obese wife had been fighting for as long as Trilby had been in Port Royal, which was almost ten years. Trilby sighed dejectedly. “Sae, that’s all I’ve got for entertainment since that she-devil of a pirate left town, is it? And that imp, Devon Burke gone as well, more’s the pity.” He glared at Souris again, who had picked up Trilby’s cat, Cleopatra, and was stroking her calico fur, much to her annoyance. “What this town needs is a little more excitement. I havena had any fun since Burke and I spent that night at the tavern drinking. Drunk as lords we were by nights end.” Souris dropped the squirming cat, and refilled his master’s coconut with rum. “Hurricane season commin’. Somethin’ bound ta happen. Maybe you loose your roof again?” “Better than having the place burn down, as it nearly did.” he groused, remembering the fire of a year ago. “Ah well,” he sighed again, sipped his rum, and batted at a huge fly that was circling his turban. “Mayhap something will turn up soon, afore I die of boredom.”

Trilby raised a bushy brow. "Oh, true love is it? Then you'll be reading the bans come Sunday, I 'spect." He glanced down at the shattered pipe. "And ye might want tae lay in an extra supply of pipes, seeing as how you're such a boistrous pair." Feeling quite cheerful in his new surroundings, he slurped from his mug, then address the young girl. "Nae, luv, dinna be fooled by yon phooka. He'll promise ye the sky, but I'll warrant he's already promised most of it tae a dozen other poor girls. There will only be a pitiful bit left for yourself. Best look elsewhere if ye want true love."

Trilby glanced around the room, which was full of drunk men and women. Pipe smoke clouded the air, along with the smell of food, ale, and unwashed bodies. He turned to Burke. "Sae, I see ye hae a den of iniquity like any deevil. But, I dinna think it's sae bad." And with that, he plopped himself into a chair and asked the closest bar maid for a mug of ale. When she turned, he pinched her ample bum, which got him a swat of her hand, and a laugh. "Careful, you ol' dodger," she said, grinning, "Or I'll have your randy carcass tossed out of here." "Ah, mae lovely, I'm too old tae be randy, but I can admire a nice haunch when I see one." Yes, Trilby thought, I should get out more often, for it never hurt a body to enjoy a bit of company now and then. Especially fulsome company like yon bar maid. He glanced over at Burke, who looked very much at home. "Ye know, lad, ye could be right. May hap this is where the Gods relax, and dream up ways to torment us mortals."

Trilby listened to the exchange with an exaggerated roll of the eyes, and a heavy sigh. When Devon turned back to him, Trilby, at first, ignored the question, and said, "Ah, so ye hae turned mae patio into a courting field, hae ye? And which poor bonny lass are ye tormenting?" Trilby peered over the half-wall, then called down to the retreating figure. "Ye hae mae pardon, Miss, for the oer-blandishments of this Irish imp. Take nae offense, for he kens nae better." All Trilby got in reply was the girls parting back and her laughter. However, the offer of a trip to the tavern fell on very receptive ears. He smiled back at the young man who stood before him, a twinkle in his eyes. "But I must say, I hae seen precious little o' heaven in Port Royal, and I havena been to a tavern in many a month. So, since ye seem tae hae enough coin tae go a-courting, ye can buy me mae first tankard. Tis only fair, since ye been making mae fine port disappear quick enough, 'cracked' glasses or no." So saying, Trilby retrieved his battered turban from the dog skeleton, shoved it on his head, and led the way downstairs. Devon, chuckling, followed behind him. Cleopatra reclaimed the vacated cushioned seat nicely warmed by the guest's backside, curled herself within its patterned softness, and enjoyed the peace, quiet, and solitude with regal contentment.

"Now, what the deevil is that supposed tae mean?"

"Molly were a fine lass, that be true. And her death a grizzly bit o' business. I hae mae own thoughts on the one who did her. But he's paid the price for it, so good riddance." Angus refilled the glasses. Had he not been feeling the effects of the port, he might not have blurted out the next bit of information, but he needed something to lighten the dark mood that came over him every time he thought of Killingsworth. So, he threw caution to the wind...or in this case, to an all too receptive ear. "Fiery? Aye, and with a fine sense of humor. Why, ye should hae seen her the day she caught Sebastian standing in mae study, naked as the day his mither gave him birth. And what does she do, but burst out laughing. And there was the peacock, without a stitch o' plumage, trying tae pretend it was o' nae concern at all." Angus chortled at the memory, then attuned himself to his guest's last word. "Mayhaps what?"

"Be demmed it is. You're a brazen liar, Devon Burke. And don't be blaiming your skill at emptying a glass on my good crystal." Angus laughed. "But ye may have the right o' it, as far as Port Royal. However, there's been naught but chaos in mae house o' late, and by nae want o' mae own. As for the owner o' the mercantile, phsh, his bride has been playing the paddy fingers with that guardsman before she wed. Which nae man can blame her, for her husband has been playing on the wrong side o' the sheets himself. Sae nae tell me news that half the town already kens. 'Tis that fine peacock Sebastian, and the red-haired she-devil I'm interested in. I ne're though those two would strike a spark. She doesnna seem his type. Ye must hae an opinion, since she nearly shot ye in mae kitchen." Angus grinned at his guest and gave him a wink.