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Dying for honour
The thing was, the British Navy wasn’t supposed to lose .
And yet here he was, lying on the deck, covered in other people’s blood, shit, and sick, listening to the second mate surrender and still get his head blown off for his trouble. The boy lay there, eyes firmly shut, pretending to be dead, hoping that this would finally be the end of it, and quick if at all possible. Which, knowing his luck, it wouldn’t be.
They figured out he was actually alive once the crew started kicking the corpses to see who moved. Anyone who made a noise got stabbed. He didn’t make a noise. But he did vomit over the boots of the man who’d kicked him in the stomach. Small victory for the powder monkey.
“Join or die,” they said. So he joined. He hoped his Ma would get a little when they marked him down as dead. He figured they wouldn’t bother to send her the three pounds. At least she wouldn’t know to mourn him.
“The old days are passed away. You’re a new man now,” said the Carpenter, holding out a Bible. “Three chances, best of two, angels’ll guide you.” He flipped through the pages, stopping at random and making the boy put his finger down somewhere on each fresh page. The Carpenter read each divination aloud. “Hands. Shemiramoth. Israel. ”
They decided that Shemiramoth would be too difficult to spell on the roster.
Still, Israel felt lucky, as he bedded down that first night next to Whosoever Concubine.
He wondered a lot, that year aboard the Marianne , about what the third choice had been.
Dying for friendship
Ed got the idea from him, unfortunately—Israel had been retelling a story he’d heard once, to help pass the time after dark. He’d wanted to make himself useful, earn his keep on the ship by his wits more than his body. Luckily, the former were the most in demand.
“So here’s the plan,” Ed said. “First we bribe the undertaker. Then we hide in the coffins, get carried into the chapel, wait for morning, and then burst out once we’re inside the fortress walls. We’ll take it from the inside out like it was nothing - easiest prize you ever won, boys!”
Israel knew that just because something worked in a story, that didn’t mean it would work in real life. But Ed moved through a different reality, and dragged Israel along in his wake. Ed achieved unbelievable victories while other men’s plans fell apart after “first we.”
“It’ll be fine, Izzy, trust me,” said Ed, closing the lid over him, shutting out the light. Israel could hear the sounds of the others being shut into their own coffins. In time, someone came and moved him onto something with wheels, and then his coffin was shifted none too gently onto something cold and hard, and then the sounds of movement stopped altogether, footfalls echoing away and leaving only the silence of the stone.
Israel breathed there in the pine-scented darkness, lying in wait, tasting the name Izzy Izzy Izzy over and over in someone else’s mouth.
Dying for love
Every time Ed left him, he seemed to take another piece of Izzy that wasn’t ever replaced.
There were times it would make him angry. Ed got to disappear from Izzy’s world, in pursuit of whatever had currently caught his attention, like a child chasing a butterfly.
The first time, it had hurt so badly Izzy couldn’t breathe for a month. They said that a soulmate was half of you—that couldn’t be right, because Izzy felt like his entire soul had been ripped away like a spiderweb in a hurricane. He’d plodded on because he had to, stuffing his fist into his mouth to stifle his sobs in the night, eye twitching constantly during the day—a black leather shell with the remains of a man inside.
Ed hadn’t even said goodbye, he’d swung over on impulse onto the Ranger and they’d gone to separate headings. Ed might be at the bottom of the sea by now. Izzy felt as though he already was, moving slowly through tonnes of pressure and darkness all around.
That had been the first time. Izzy couldn’t say that he was used to it by now, but he recognized the winter of Ed’s attention was a season to endure for however long it lasted.
The worst part was feeling like a ghost in his own life. Leftover, left behind, carrying on, getting by. The men raising the sail and lowering the sail, oiling the cannons, swabbing the deck, tightening the lines and mending the nets. And, all the while, Izzy would let Ed go, again and again, dying a little more with every trudging footstep.
Anyway Ed would always hunt him down, when he needed something.
Dying for beauty
“The thing is,” John said, “sometimes you have to let yourself become someone else, to let your true self out.” Izzy hung back at first, watching the mirror over John’s shoulder as John added another dramatic flourish to his cheek. Izzy watched, fascinated and jealous, as Calypso shimmered forward into being under John’s deft hand.
“Can anyone… do that?” Izzy asked.
“Do what, pet?” said John.
“Can you… make me pretty, too?” he asked. He looked down at his feet, scuffing his boot against the old timber floor, ashamed of the question and dreading the answer.
“Easily,” said Calypso. She turned in her seat to take both of Izzy’s hands in hers. “The real question is, who do you want to become?”
Izzy shook his head and shrugged.
Calypso smiled. She stood up and turned the stool away from the mirror, welcoming Izzy to sit. She took over, turning his face this way and that, removing Izzy little by little, wiping small parts of himself away under the cover of each bold swipe of colour.
Now, what about a name. How about Toodles O’Clair? (Horrible) Busty de Pointe du Lac? (Worse somehow.) Chestnut FitzGiles? Or Chesty for short… (Was that a short joke?) No, it was about your tits.
At long last, Calypso swivelled the stool, allowing her creation to come face to face with himself.
Israel peered into the polished glass, at the proud swirl of his hair, the haughty arch of his eyebrows, the rosy moue of his lips, his heart on a chain pinned to his breast. He knew who he wasn’t, anymore.
“Vianne Rose,” he named himself.
Dying for no good reason
Probably what hurt the most about really dying was how fucking pointless it all was.
A stray shot from an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Izzy hadn’t saved anyone, or done anything extraordinary. He hadn’t dived in front of a bullet for someone or been the first to lead a futile charge. It wasn’t until he began to slow the rest of the group down that anyone even noticed he’d been bleeding.
There was no quick, relieving shot to the head or heart—one, and done. No, Izzy had to limp and stagger to the beach, knowing that he was going to die, and for nothing.
It was enough to make a man spit. Which he did, tinged with red, floating on the surface of the water. Jackie held a flask of cool, vaguely minty water to his lips in the dinghy, and the taste of his last sips of water in the world were finer than any wine.
And now here he was, cradled in Ed’s arms while Ed’s face crumbled with the knowledge
that his doll wasn’t ever going to be there to play with again. It was hard to watch Ed cry. Harder still to know that Ed might spiral down into the dark after him, and know that if he did, he’d take all the rest of them along with him. If there was one thing Izzy was fucked to do, it was to let that happen again.
Izzy felt the pain in his side fading, and the boneless numbness creeping over him, and that was all right. Just one more thing, before he could let go, and really rest.
He told Ed what he needed to hear.
That he was loved. That he was with family (which Izzy realised wasn’t maybe the most strategic analogy, if he wanted to keep the crew alive after he was gone). That he was surrounded by those who would live and die for him—but most importantly, would live and live on. Izzy realised he was talking to himself as much as to Ed.
“I want to go,” he said. One final lie.
Izzy blacked out, his hand tangled in the spiderweb of Ed’s hair.
Dying to live
Izzy slowly became aware of a light on the outside of his eyelids. He’d heard of this, going toward the light—if there was a direction to go in, he supposed. The peaceful, quiet end of it all. Warmth, and light, and Fiddler’s Green stretching out ahead, grassy soft, and welcoming.
Nobody had ever mentioned bickering.
“All I’m asking is, why did you happen to have that on you, even after a clothes change and during a frantic escape?”
“Jackie keeps herself prepared. That’s all you need to know. And that’s all you gon know.”
“Right well, disturbing implications aside, how did you even dose him in the middle of a battle?”
“Jackie has her ways.” The tone fell as flat as a lead balloon on a sandy beach, and invited absolutely no followup.
Izzy’s eyes fluttered open. He was laid out on what felt like a pile of sailcloth, with Wee John sitting behind him, heartbeat thundering in Izzy’s ears. Lucius was holding his hand for some reason. Everyone else was crowded around, staring at him. Izzy hoped they would have the sense to let him sleep. And that someone was steering the fucking ship.
Unfortunately, as Lucius had barely more sense than God gave a sponge, he kept on. “Yeah but, where-”
“Pack it in,” Izzy said, or rather, he tried to, getting as far as Pa- before needing to cough. John put a firm, big hand against his back, and Roach guided a tankard of water to his lips. Izzy drank deeply, relishing the wooden taste of water that had sat in a barrel underdeck for weeks. Tasted just like home.
“Hell am I doing below? Where’s Ed?” Izzy asked. He pressed a hand to his throbbing side and winced. Izzy breathed through the pain, and it subsided a little. He looked around at the group of ragtag misfits masquerading as a crew. He wanted to either hug or punch all of them. He settled on barking, “well?!”
Frenchie pushed his way to the front of the throng. “Well, uh, I suppose we have a few things to catch you up on. Ed’s gone. He an’ Captain found a rundown shack in the middle of nowhere and they’re going to try to live there for a bit. We left them there without food or water, they didn’t seem to notice. Probably because we left them with plenty of oil. Pete and Lucius are matelots now, had a whole big ceremony, really moving. Far as the Captains are convinced, you’re dead and buried in their yard. We had a funeral, made it a bit more real. Bit of a fuckery, mostly old sheets and a cannonball or two. Hard to look properly sad but I think we pulled it off.” He took a quick, deep breath and barrelled on. “Buttons is still a seagull, he said your grave looks nice, they’re keeping it up. Zheng and Jackie are going to sail with us until they, quote, can find anything better. We lost your ring and your horsey leg in the fuckery. Ship’s ours now. We’re low on pretty much everything for supplies, but Jackie said she has a beach house we can restock at. Weather’s nice today and there’s a good wind coming up tomorrow. Oh, and we’re going to make you a new leg—we just need to find a ship with a figurehead that has legs instead of tits.”
Izzy blinked at the torrent of information, and settled on the piece that seemed most important to start with. “I’m dead?”
“Yep. But you’re going to be fine.” Frenchie held out a hand to help him to stand. Izzy took it, looping an arm around Lucius, who was taking entirely too many liberties in putting a steadying hand on his chest. Izzy pleasantly ignored it.
Frenchie waited until Izzy had stopped wobbling, then stepped back, and gave a quarter-hearted version of a naval salute.
“Captain Hands,” he said. “Welcome to the afterlife.”