Black Mab

August 2, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog After Brand had taken his leave, it took Moira another several moments to compose herself. As her ire wore off, she found herself trembling and blushing fiercely. "ach, me . . ." she murmered to herself as she tugged the new shirt over her head, after readjusting and tightening the muslin wrapped around her torso. She was surprised how good it felt to put on comparatively clean and new clothes. The slops provided to her fit surprisingly well. She hadn't realized she'd gotten so tall. Her old rags she folded into a neat pile and carried back to the galley, stowing them under a stool near the waiting mound of potatoes. No sense wasting scraps, she might get a patch or two out of them yet. Using a polished silver platter for a mirror, Moira did her best to pull her tattered locks into two braids. She'd been hacking off her dark hair with a blunt knife for the last two years, trying to keep it in some semblance of a boy's cut and length. It will grow back soon enough, she consoled her doleful reflection. After that, it was back to business as usual. Gage raised an eyebrow but in his typical taciturn manner, made no comment. Apart from new clothes, she didn't look that much different anyway. The cook left her strict instructions to remain in the galley, finish the potatoes, prepare a crate of chickens, refresh the coffee, and so forth before departing for his time ashore. Moira bent to the work with vigor, slowly relaxing as the mindless labor dulled the confused emotions still rushing through her.

The lass, for she could no longer be called 'lad,' nor 'Ned,' swallowed hard at Brand's solemn words. She'd thought her life was in the balance last night. She'd had no idea. Taking a deep breath, and drawing the new shirt she still clutched in her shaking hand about her shoulders, the lass took a step forward. Looking Brand right in the eye, unflinching, she said, "Cap'n, me name is Moira O'Flaherty - that much ah tole ye was true enough. Ah was born nigh on seventeen years ago in Galway. Ah worked half me life, wit' me good-fer-nothin' drunken whore of a mother, in tha' house of an English landowner. Ah had a brother, long dead, named Edward an' ah took his name more'n two years ago when ah left . . .nay, when ah fled Ireland." Moira hesitated then, though her gaze remained steady. He didn't need her entire family history, it wasn't really important anyway. But here she was standing practically naked in front of him, so why bother to hide anything else? "Sah, I swear tae ye that ah have not come aboard tae make trouble fer anyone, though ah think Miss McDonaugh's frien' fears something about me, ah knae not what. Please do'na press me as tae why ah ran from me home - t'wasn't much tae leave anyway, an't has no bearing on why ah'm here now. I never hurt anyone, never stole naught but bread to live on, an' that only once ah was on tha run an' starvin . . .ye have other women on yer ship - ye know how hard a woman can work and ah'm no differen'. Ah will earn my keep, sah, doin' anythin' ye ask of me. Ah can cook, clean and sew a bit. Ah . . ." Again she hesitated but plowed on, "ye said ye have read a bit o' tha doctors literature. Ah canna' understand such language as that but ah have a bit o' tha letters in me head . . . ah can read a very small bit, sah, though a scrap o'newspaper's all ah've ever had ta' look at. Ah promise ye ah'll be useful to ye." Moira stopped there. There was nothing more to say. Either he believed her or he didn't. She'd come aboard a thief, caught stealing from one of his own crew. She knew little enough of ship's articles but suspected that wasn't a glowing mark on her record already. But hell if she'd go back to stealing and starving in the sweltering, godforsaken streets of some miserable tropical village. She didn't like the trick he'd played on her - she didn't like being taken for a fool. But Brand was clearly intelligent. He seemed as fair judge as any she was likely to meet now, and the thought of a privateer clapping a pickpocket in irons was enough to make her crack a small smile as she stood waiting for his verdict.

But the captain's words had made an impact on Ned. Besides that, he'd had days while the 'Dog and Heron were in harbor to watch the crews and he'd seen a good bit more once aboard. Setting his jaw firmly, Ned reached out and caught the hem of the shirt, snatching it back just before it settled into the pile. "Ah am not shy o' man nor woman, sah. Ah'd once fancied me secrets me own but as ye say, sah, there're tae be no secrets here. Ah swore tae tell ye the truth this morn an' now ah shall, but let there be mercy among thieves, or may God hi'self see ye ta hell!" His outburst terrified even him. Ned wanted nothing more than to take to his heels, dive overboard and let the tides cool his shame as they carried him far from the Watchdog and its too-insightful captain. His legs were shaking too hard for that kind of action, though, so the lad only jerked what remained of his shirt straight forward away from his neck, violently ripping the garment to tatters as he tore it away from himself. The abrupt motion broke the rope around his waist, dropping his loose breeches around his ankles. Face flushed red, eyes burning, the lad stared defiantly up at the captain, wearing little more than what he'd been born in, plus the more recent addition of a dingy pair of linen underdrawers and a great length of muslin bound tightly around his upper chest.

Ned eyed the slops dubiously, gauging the waistband. Well, Brand must have met some skinny sailors in his day; the slops would be loose but there was no protesting that they would not fit. Ned turned his doubting gaze on the captain who, far from inscrutable now, seemed to be greatly enjoying the joke. Ned chewed his lower lip for a moment, stalling. "Ah can assure ye, sah, I've ne'er been sick a day in me life. Right strong lads me mum raised, rest 'er soul." The captain just cocked an eyebrow at him and Ned looked away, realizing that he'd more or less just disobeyed a fairly straightforward order. "Ah . . .um . . .sah, is't proper? A workin' man undressed a'fore tha' cap'n?" This Ned was genuinely unsure about. It seemed uncouth.

Ned could do little more than blink in surprise. This, of all things, was not what he had been expecting. He eyed the shirt which the captain extended to him. It was certainly cleaner than the tatters he was currently wearing, which really did very little to cover his lower arms and shoulders, for the sleeves were so tattered they barely reached his elbows and the neck was so stretched it was constantly sliding off. Slowly, he reached out to take the shirt, examining it. It had a slight rend along one side seam, and would require a few extra stitches here and there. Any fool with a needle and bit of thread could have made short work of it. Unfortunately, Ned had neither. And really, his breeches were in an even worse state than his shirt. By the end of the day, he'd be walking around holding them up with one hand when the rope belt finally gave out. Summoning his courage, Ned began,"Sah, ye've been fahr too kind tah me. Ah do hate, sah, to ask for any more than ye've already offered but sah . . .these drawahs . . . He gestured to the tattered and muddy pants. "Ah don't think they'll last much longer. If ye've a needle an' thread among those things, sah, might ye also have an awld pair o' trousers ah might hem up tah go wit' this shirt, what will need a stitch or two a'fore wearin'?" Ned looked down at the ground, embarrassed. He scuffed his (very tattered) toe against the polished wood of the deck, as boys do when they're at a loss for words, and finally muttered, "an' new shoes, sah, it's really more than ah've any right tah accept . . . ". . .I mus' be payin' ye back somehow, sah. Ye have been more generous than the likes 'o me 'ave any right to a'tall, sah. Ah've spent me day in tha' galley an' if that's where ye want me ah'll be glad to continue peelin' potatoes but sah, just say tha word an' ah'll do anything ye ask of me . . ." The lad trailed off, blushing a fierce red under the thin layer of dust darkening his cheeks. Unused to kindness such as this, and certainly not expecting it from this quarter, Ned had no idea whatsoever how to properly proceed.

Damn it, I completely read this wrong and thought that the cut-off date to sign UP was on Halloween. I have been so busy with work that I have not even started my sketchbook yet but I thought I had another couple days. Curses. I don't think I'll be able to participate now, unless someone doesn't mind getting a book about a week late . . . edit: well, maybe two days late? would that be okay? I just realized I'm going to be stuck at shows without internet access and with pretty much nothing to do for the next two days, so I could actually get some sketching in . . .

Ned entered slowly, letting his eyes readjust to the new light and was surprised to see another person, a woman, in the room with Captain Brand. She looked gaunt and pale, and equally nonplussed to see him, so he offered no salutation as Brand firmly ushered her from the room. Not knowing what to do, he simply nodded when the captain ordered him to wait and exited himself. Utterly confused, Ned stood perfectly still in the middle of the room and tried to fathom these unexpected proceedings. He couldn't gauge Brand's mood at all - the man's commanding presence was nearly overwhelming to the lad, who was still concentrating on maintaining a non-threatening anonymity. It had, after all, been less than a day since they'd brought him on board and he was still not at all certain of the inscrutable captain's intentions. Mind churning, Ned clenched and unclenched his hands. This reminded him of his previous work with the potatoes so he did his best to wipe the last of the vegetable goo off on his already-grimy shirttail. Re-tucking the shirt into torn breeches held up by a length of fraying rope, Ned abashedly realized what a sight he must be. His right hand rose automatically, brushing his long bangs away from his eyes and trying to smooth the tangles out of his dark brown hair. Thus occupied by the simple motions of grooming, Ned hardly noticed the passage of time as he waited for the captain to return.

The day had simply flown by, as Ned bustled about making himself useful to the cook of the Watchdog. He'd been peeling potatoes, a mind-numbingly tedious task but one he was accomplishing with surprising speed, when the knife slipped out of his damp, slimy fingers. He'd just bent over to pick it up when he heard a step behind him on the wooden planks. Attempting to look casual, Ned straightened up and pretended to brush at some nonexistent stain on his apron as he glanced peripherally over his shoulder. Before he could discern the identity of the shadow in the doorway, the Watchdog's captain's voice boomed out, startling him. "O'Flaherty . . . I'll see you in the surgery." Ned's heart gave a leap - evidently right out of his chest and into a stack of pottery- which he barely saved from a disastrous spill across the floor. As soon as he had managed to gather his wits along with the dishes, he hung his apron on a hook and stuck his knife into the nearest potato. Gage indicated the route he ought to follow and, heart still beating loudly, Ned took a deep breath and crossed the passageway into the surgery to meet his Captain.

First weekend only. A'cursed work gettin' in tha way!

If you expected anything other than what you got, you don't know us very well!

Sign me up! I'm pretty sure I've been around for 2 months . . . And huzzah for the Hanukkah Fairy! I thought I was the only one who read that book . . .

Ned had been awakened before dawn by a sharp jab in the ribs. Through a groggy haze, his first instinct was to cry out and curl into a ball, arms over his head. A strong hand caught him around the wrist and jerked him roughly to his feet. At the same time, a gruff but not unfriendly voice informed him, "You told me you'd work for your food, and work you shall. Dawn's nigh upon us and the men will be wantin' their breakfast. Now get movin'!" Shaking his head to clear the last of his sleepy vapors, the events of the previous night came rushing back to him. For the first time in weeks - no, in months - hunger did not gnaw at his belly and damp cold did not stiffen his limbs. Eager to maintain this trend and to hold up his end of his promise to the captain who'd taken him in, Ned was quick to follow the cook's instructions in stoking the ovens, fetching water for coffee, stirring the vats of thick oatmeal and keeping a weather eye turned to the rapidly-browning biscuits half-buried in glowing coals. Men came and went, most ignoring him completely, focused on the business of filling their mugs with coffee and their bellies with hot food. Bells sounded from time to time, marking the hour, but Ned was kept so busy running back and forth for this and the other that he scarcely paid them any mind. He brightened up when Miss McDonough entered the galley, but kept his distance from her, hoping she wasn't still upset with him for trying to rob her. She ignored him, although he watched her cross to the surgery and later emerge with her shy friend of the night before. Feeling a bit of solidarity with them - after all, they'd all come aboard together - Ned looked away and tried to ignore the feeling of being left out. Well, he'd sworn he wasn't a true thief and he'd show her and the Captain and all the rest. Cooking wasn't exactly his strength but once upon a time, in some half-remembered former life, he had been able to find his way around a kitchen - particularly the growing stacks of soiled pots, pans and assorted dishes - and the business gradually came back to him. By the time Ned and Master Gage, for somewhere beneath the mound of now-sparkling pots the cook had introduced himself, had completed the washing-up and had indulged in a mug of coffee (still hot, for it seemed to brew constantly) and a slightly-hardened biscuit, it was nearly time to start preparation on the mid-day meal. The endless cycle was comforting to Ned. There was nothing dangerous to peeling potatoes and carrying water. The endless labor gave him something tangible to focus on, and he never needed to fear that the Captain might catch him standing idle.

Ned's eyes flew open so wide, it appeared they would fall right out of his narrow face. "Sah!" he gasped, hardly able to believe his ears. Then, before the captain could change his mind, the skinny youth bolted out the door. Outside, he nearly collided headlong with a passing marine. "Galley?!" he yelped, dodging at the last second. The marine grunted and pointed in the general direction. Ned was gone, tossing a quick, "Thanks!" over his shoulder, but the man had already moved on.

At this, the lad could finally wait no longer. Knowing it was rude, knowing what he risked if he broke the captain’s already frayed patience, he shakily got to his feet and stood between them. Doing as Miss Ashcombe had done before him, he raised his head and a lock of dark brown hair fell across his forehead as he looked the older man in the eye. “Ah na’er claimed t’ be a sailor, sah,” he began. “What this lady ha’ tol’ ye is true: out o’ desperation an’ hunger ah attempted to rob her an’ her frien’. Ah ne’ar ment ‘em any harm, sah. Ah learned tah watch deh docks, sah, an’ when a ship puts in to port ah watch deh men what gets off her. Ah’ve got tah be a fair judge o’ men an’ ships, sah. Even deh women aboard yer vessel are treated wit’ respect, sah. As ah tole’ tha lady, sah, ah na’er meant ta’ become a thief. Ah’m not suited for it a’ all, sah, though ah’ve a fair skill wit’ me ‘ands, sah, and a quick study at dat. Ah mean tah work fer me bread, sah, an do me work quick an’ well, as me mum taught me. Yer crews are treated far finer’n most. Tha lady na'er said she'd ask fer me, so ah'm askin' fer meself, sah. Ah’d be proud tah earn a fair wage aboard a ship such as dis’un, sah. An if ah do’na hold up mah end ‘o dah bargain, sah, ye can beat me or shoot me or toss me over the side, sah only please don’t take me back to Martinique tah da guards nor tah beggin an’ stealin.’ Please, sah.” The lad had said all this in a great rush, half of it nearly unintelligible through a thick Irish accent. Now he stopped, all but panting, eyes never leaving the captain’s face. Just waiting for judgment . . .

The lad eyed the knife, fear rapidly overcoming his defiance once again. There would be no food tonight, nor gold. And at this rate, these strong, fierce women were not even inclined to allow him to keep his life. Having drawn this dismal conclusion, he slumped down in the chair, utterly defeated. Careful to avoid her gaze, he blurted out the whole story: "Lady, ye are right. 'twas not food I sought tonight, though usually that be my only goal . . ." He continued, after a deep breath, "I watch d'port an' d'ships as they come in. I follow sailors what have d'er pockets heavy wit' gold. I follow 'em and when they've drunk em'selves t'sleep I take what I need . . ." Miss McDonough sat up, triumphant, "So, you ARE a thief!" The lad looked up, eyes flashing, "Aye, ma'am, but ne'er by choice nor design, merely necessity. Ah wan'ta survive." Miss McDonough looked narrowly at the youth, still suspicious of his motives, "So why would you choose me out of all the sailors in port just now?" The boy looked away again as he answered, "You were smaller'n tha rest. Ye made an easier target. T'night, ye came in limpin' an' I thought ye'd not be able tah chase me . . ." Miss McDonough still appeared skeptical so he rushed on, "Ah've watch'd a long time, ma'am. Ah've seen all manner of men come through Martinique . . all sorts, some no better'n slaves and some what strut like royalty . . .I seen how yer captains treat the men . . .and women, beggin' yer pardon . . . have ye any idea how lucky ye are?" There was that tone again. Just a note in his voice, just for a second, but Miss McDonough's sharp ears caught it. His tone, in the context of that last query . . .she could scarcely believe her ears. The lad looked down at his lap, "Ah du'na wanta be a thief. Ah never did. Ah'd work fer me keep, if anyone would have me . . ." at that, his eyes darted to her face and down again . . . "Ah'm strong an' ah learn quick. Two years ago ah din' know a sail from a marlinspike, nor a lock from a shoe . . .an' now yer injured. . ." He looked up then, eyes alive with newfound hope, "How can ye work on yer ship? Ah could help ye! Don' kill me, don' turn me in to the guards an' I swear, ma'am, ye won't regret it . . .please, lady . . ." He trailed off, out of words and explanation, nothing left to do but wait for her judgement . . .

The lad struggled against his bonds for a moment, surprised and dismayed at the strength of the knots which held him firmly in the chair. Well, at least he was only tied down and not shot full of holes. Embarrassment and disgust at his utter failure as a thief overrode fear as he looked sullenly away from the intense figure on the bed. "Ah tole ye. Ah mean no harm. Ye came in late an' ah thought ye would be havin' food sent up. . . Ah was jus' hungry." But as he said this last, his voice - low enough in volume and timbre and yet surprisingly high for a lad of his height - faltered ever so slightly and his eyes flickered downward into his lap, betraying to Miss McDonough's sharp gaze the suggestion that perhaps he was not telling her everything . . .

Please add: Black Mab, South Pasadena, CA Will hunt down a proper sketchbook sometime this weekend (curses, I was just at a Blick artstore today!)

The slender figure pinned beneath Miss McDonough struggled at first, an automatic reaction to entrapment, but froze at the touch of cold steel against his throat. His eyes widened when she spoke, “Light d’candle, n’grab m’pistol! D’naut move n’inch lad!” Flinching, he gasped out, "Please! D'na shoot me!" Miss McDonough could feel him trembling as he spoke again, this time barely above a whisper, his tone one of desperation and fear,"I mean yeh an' yer frien' no harm. . .truly . . ." Unable to turn his head away from Miss McDonaugh's piercing glare, he averted his eyes to stare at the wall as he murmured, defeated, ". . .ah was jus' hungry . . ."

Abovestairs, in strack contrast to the light and noise of the spacious common room, the narrow hallways between sleeping chambers were cloaked in complete darkness broken only intermittently by guttering lamps. Barely enough light touched the corners to illuminate a narrow strip between door and floor. Yet, enough for sharp eyes and sharper ears to note – clear as day – when a slow, awkward step passed by and, at the same time – just for a moment – the light under the cabinet door dimmed. Some time afterwards, long after a door at the far end of the hall had opened and shut and a key had clicked in the lock, the ghost in the closet finally stirred. At first, only a soft squeak was heard, then a shuffle. If anyone had been listening, they would easily have mistaken the soft noises for nothing more than a mouse evading prowling tavern cats. A shadow, darker than its surroundings, flickered between the lamps. No mouse, then, but something larger – more humanlike. The door to Miss McDonough’s room was opportunely situated in one of the darker parts of the corridor. Even so, a passerby might have observed – but only for a moment- a form crouched before the door. And then, a click, muffled by the storm. A bolt of lightening struck outdoors, quite close, and the eves fairly rattled with the percussive thunder that followed. In that moment, Murin’s door swung open ever so slightly and that dark form slipped through. With the window shuttered against the driving rain, the interior of the room was not quite lit well enough to make out Miss McDonough’s shape as she reclined on the bed, resting her ankle. So the shadow entered cautiously, eyes darting furtively as it searched for . . .what? Making barely a sound, avoiding a large puddle on the floor, it slipped to a chair over which a waistcoat had been draped. A hand darted out and with practiced speed tested the pockets and lining for telltale lumps. No coins to be found there, no treasure at all. A blinding flash of light, and the shadow in the room resolved itself into the shape of a man of medium height and slender build, clothing and coloring equally blurred in the murky darkness that again blanketed the room. Finding nothing of worth in Miss McDonough’s waistcoat, the scoundrel moved on, his dark mission now as clear as his form. Very few surfaces in the room, very few possessions at all. His eyes adjusted slowly, enough to see the form in the bed, the lady’s head turned away from the door. Her breathing was soft and even – she was quite asleep. Even so, the thief’s pace as he approached the bed remained a snail’s crawl. He’d seen her arrive at the tavern with a bag. She must still have it. She’d made purchases this day, yet her compatriots had been far freer with their gold. She must have coins aplenty secreted away . . . He was no more than a few feet from the bed at this point, his back to the door, still free to run the moment she stirred. He moved forward, so close now he could reach out and touch her. Rain drummed rhythmically on the roof, masking his smooth footsteps and measured breathing. Thunder continued to rumble. Lightening flashed and he caught a glimpse of a thong about the slumbering woman's throat, perhaps connected to a bag? He hesitated to move – the storm seemed to be holding its breath and even the rain seemed to have silenced. Temptation, greed, perhaps simple desperation drove him forward. . . Too quickly! As careful as he’d been to place his feet, the weathered boards under his badly-worn leather shoes betrayed him now. The softest of creaks, but loud as a trumpet blast in the impossible silence. He jumped backwards, but Miss McDonough had entered the room exhausted and cast her shoes aside haphazardly. Stepping backwards onto one of those same shoes now, the thief lost his footing completely. He tripped backwards, making even more noise in the progress, instinctively reached out to catch himself, and in that moment she had him.

Ooh this sounds fun! How do I get in on it?!

You know how New York has boroughs? Yeah, we have "neighborhoods" . . .whoever planned LA, in their infinite wisdom, decided to make it as spread-out as possible, and then connect the whole thing with a freeways (okay, it wasn't really planned that way but that's what happened anyhow) Eagle Rock, Silverlake, West Hollywood, Westwood, Brentwood, Hollywood (got wood?), El Sereno . . .all these are neighborhoods. And that doesn't even scratch the surface of how many there are. Brilliant planning, yeah? Anyway, nice to know I hagve so many (in)famous pirates in my very near vicinity! Yay!

Wait you're in SAN MARINO?!?!?! I'm in South Pas right off Fair Oaks! That's crazy! I don't know why I thought you were from up north - just got that idea in my mad noggin somehow. That is too funny. I played for 6 years, then dropped it entirely when I went to college. I'm just getting back in to it thanks to working around musicians all day(and actually looking for a teacher, so if you have met any that you would like to recommend . . .where did you find yours? Through a school, or . . .? Funny with all the musicians around me that I haven't found one, but having someone I'm supposed to be "managing" teach me is a bit of a conflict of interest, it seems). Pshaw not quartet material yet. Anyone who has the motivation you seem to would have no problem! Oh yes, we should definitely make the trek to Long Beach some time to hear the fiddlers. It would be great fun. And sorry, I sort of typed that wrong - I'm sure dropping your case was absolutely horrifying at the time. It's only entertaining in the retelling (and only then because nothing was damaged).

Hi Red Maria! Too bad I'm in LA and you're up in Northern California (that's right, right?), we could start a pirate string quartet I looked up the English Dancing Master and the LA public library has a copy (which, of course, is checked out right now). I have a hold on it . . .can't wait to start looking at it. Thanks for the links. Long Beach isn't too far and that sounds like a fun way to spend an afternoon. Beats football, anyway. Omigosh you dropped your case?! That's rather funny - I'm glad your instrument (and case) came to no harm! Yeah, instruments really must be hardier than I give them credit for. Today I had the pleasure of meeting a (playable) bass made in 1769!!!

Fantastic work, Odorless! I am so impressed with this whole project - it is just brilliant and your creativity is astonishing. Thanks for posting all the pics (and videos) as you go - it's like watching a time lapse!

Oh that looks wonderful!!! You have tons of space in there, too. Thanks for providing all the pictures . . . let us know how the sleeve works.