Art:AADM/Second round/The Treasure Knot

The Short
= The Entry =

The Treasure Knot
To a pirate, the concept of loyalty is fleeting, like a dropped pebble’s rings in a choppy ocean. Senara had learned early on to trust no one, not even her own family, so when she found that her ship had left her behind, on a cold November evening in the port city of Saint Kitts, it wasn’t surprise she felt. Instead, she rattled her thin purse, cursing herself for not taking more pieces of eight when she’d decided so impulsively to spend the afternoon shopping for a new pair of boots.

Well, she’d gotten the boots. Maroon leather, very nice for the price. She stared at them now, as she crouched shivering atop an upright barrel sheltered beneath a shipwright’s overhang. A gas lamp hanging above cast a globe of light in the thin mist that basted the city in damp chill. Occasionally, a figure stumbled out of the saloon across the way and wavered down the cobblestone alley, falsely warmed but truly drunk with grog.

Senara groaned. She’d been on the Avenging Cod for two and a half years, long enough to celebrate her sixteenth birthday last August, and she knew few other crews, certainly none that would be tied up in Saint Kitts this time of year. It had been an irregular stop; the captain had some gold ore weighing down the hull that she’d wanted to sell. Senara had taken one look at the crowded, steep-cliffed port city and thought, civilization! Then she’d looked down at her scuffed and salt-stained red boots, the right one with a hole over the little toe, and had promptly hit her heels dockside.

And now the Avenging Cod was gone, slipped away like a moth from a smoke-filled room. The captain probably wouldn’t even start missing her until she needed someone to furl the square sail. Six months Senara had spent perfecting that skill, scraping up her shins with rope burns climbing the footropes, the fleet officer’s pet monkey routinely beating her to the top only to scream with very irritating laughter. Her only consolation had been the thought that many other pirates were no better than a monkey.

Senara fingered the knotted rope she kept in her pocket for luck. It had been given to her by her mother, whom she barely remembered. Senara had been left with a pirate crew at a very young age, conscripted as a lowly bilge rat when she was nine years old. She had a hazy memory of her mother pressing the decorative knot into her palm, saying, “Keep this close to you, and you’ll always find your way home.” Sentimental nonsense, maybe, but the rope was worn shiny by Senara’s fingertips. It was a peculiar knot, as twisted and complex as a star knot or a monkey’s fist, but she had never seen one like it before. She always felt better when she touched it.

It only went so far, though. Right now, she was cold and exhausted, having trod the docks all afternoon trying to get news of her ship. One thing was sure: she couldn’t sleep on a barrel. She needed to find lodging, and fast.

Might as well try the saloon, she thought. At this hour, most of its inhabitants would be too drunk to recall where they themselves lived, but maybe the bartender could help her. She stood up, tucking her stripey knickers firmly into her boots and wrapping her buccaneer jacket tight around her slender waist. Then she made sure her skull dagger was easily accessible.

The tavern was small, fuzzily lit by red lamps, and packed full of motley rogues and swashbucklers, some lolling over a rickety poker table, some bragging loudly to anyone who’d listen, and others passed out on the floor. As she walked in, Senara locked eyes with a red-headed woman drinking brazenly from the mug of someone snoozing oblivious at the bar. The woman smiled a gap-toothed smile and raised the mug in a mock toast.

Senara quickly looked away, keeping to the opposite side of the room until she could sally up to the bartender, a harried-looking man whose beard barely hid a livid scar that slashed across his lip and cheek. When she tried to address him he frowned and cupped an ear, so she shouted, “Ahoy! Lookin’ for a place to shelter. Do ye know of any beds nearby?”

“Inn three blocks south!” he barked, and she nodded. When she turned back, she found herself toe-to-toe with the redhead, and several inches short of intimidating her. The woman leaned in so close that Senara’s curtain of black hair mingled with hers.

“I know a place ye can sleep, hon, cheaper than th’ inn,” the woman said, in a hoarse whisper. “It’s a place fer lost souls like you, a ragtag crew of sorts.”

Senara looked at the woman sharply, her hand creeping to her dagger. Despite her boozy breath, the woman’s eyes met hers steadily. They were a deep ocean green, crimped at the corners with squint-induced wrinkles.

“Would this be an inn yer talking about,” asked Senara, “or a less formal arrangement?”

Cheekbones sharp as the prow of a ship rose up with the woman’s smile. “Ah, it’s informal, to be sure, but you won’t wake with a dirk at yer throat or a gentleman in yer berth, if that’s yer question. It’s me sister’s place. She hadn’t lost a boarder for months, until three days ago. Your luck, the room’s available.”

Senara thought quickly. She could always make her way to the inn if the redhead’s offer proved half-baked, and if it worked out she’d save some poe.

“Aye, I’ll meet yer sister,” she said, turning down the corners of her mouth to show that she was still skeptical.

“Good girl,” the redhead said. She offered a hand for shaking. “Me name’s Teague.”

“Senara,” Senara said, taking the weather-beaten hand. It was surprisingly warm, and cupped hers strongly, not letting go until both women were back out in the mist-shrouded alley.

“Follow me,” said Teague. Senara’s new boots squeaked on the slippery cobblestones. She struggled to keep up with her new acquaintance as they threaded through confusing streets and alleys and ducked through low passageways. Senara noted a bakery with anchor-shaped bread in its window, and a secondhand sword shop called Blades Remade, and suddenly Teague stopped short at a plain two-story building with a dark green door. A parchment taped to the door indicated that a room was for rent for 10 pieces of eight a night, and below that a small brass plaque read, “Solicitors Will Be Guillotined.”

“Here we are,” Teague said. She rapped on the door, and it swung open into a dark foyer. Hand on dagger, Senara followed Teague in. The foyer led to a common room with a long table surrounded by benches. A blue and yellow round rag rug on the floor was the only decoration.

Except for the woman who sat on one of the benches, lighting an oil lamp. To call her decorative was an understatement. As the light from the lamp brightened the room, it revealed a beautiful maiden, her dark auburn hair braided in a simple but elegant loop high on her head, her green corset edged with scalloped black lace. Her pale face wore a placid smile, but as she turned to Senara her eyes, as green as her sister’s, flashed suddenly with keen interest. She stood and offered a hand.

“Welcome,” she said. “I’m Marya.”

Senara looked down to take the slender hand offered her, and felt a shock ripple her stomach. A finely wrought tattoo ran along the top of Marya’s arm: an intricate knot in a shape Senara knew better than her own face. It was the knot her mother had left her, a knot Senara had never seen elsewhere, laid in ink on this stranger’s skin.

“Senara,” she said stiffly, determined not to let her shock show, not knowing how else to respond. “I’m looking for a room for the night.”

“Our home is yours, Senara,” the beautiful hostess said. She lifted the lamp gracefully, and Senara followed her up the stairs into the gloam of the boarding house. She was led to a room with a little rope-brindled dresser and a narrow bed. She nodded, and Marya closed the door, leaving Senara alone to fall into bed and collapse into sleep, her dreams spinning like a ship in a hurricane.

Senara woke the next morning confused, her muscles tight, as if she’d spent the night arguing with someone. She lay in the narrow bed staring at the ceiling, which had a crack that ran across it like a river on a map. When she sat up, something felt deeply wrong, and she involuntarily gripped the bed, her head woozy, until she realized it was only that she missed the sway of a boat on the ocean. Everything here was too solid; her walk felt heavy and awkward; there was no constant rush of ocean and wind to fill up the quiet.

Then it all came back to her: the ship leaving, the inn, the boarding house, the tattoo. She tamped down the feeling of loss about her crew, and concentrated on the tattoo. What could it mean? It was not in Senara’s nature to assign happy or mystical significance to the coincidence; instead, she found herself suspicious of it. Could Teague and Marya somehow know that she had a connection to the knot? Was that why Teague chose to speak with her at the tavern? What did they want from her?

Senara determined that she would show no vulnerability, but that she’d try to work in a casual question about Marya’s tattoo. More urgently, she needed to find a job, or, better yet, a crew. She pulled her boots on with determination, splashed some cold water on her face from a porcelain basin in the room, and went down toward the common room. Laughter floated up the stairs; through the open door she saw Teague, just about to leave, shake her head at Marya, who laughed and flicked a cleaning cloth at her sister.

It was an appealing scene, the two women flushed pink from the cool morning air, which bled through the building despite a roaring fire in the common room. Their movements were sweet and natural. But Senara girded herself against liking them with the thought, Trust no one. Trust no one. And with unsteady, heavy legs, shod in their handsome new maroon boots, she stomped into the room, brows lowered, defenses at the ready.

-

Not far from Marya and Teague’s boarding house, the docks were bustling with sailors, pirates, merchants, and navy folk carrying stores, readying ships, shouting orders, and filling the morning air with clanks, thumps, and snatches of sea song.

One ship in particular attracted glances of admiration: a tall-sailed war brig, its rails painted navy, its figurehead not a mermaid, as was traditional, but an intricately-scaled fish. The ship was an unfamiliar one, having only arrived the day before, and it was getting ready to move into a long-term berth, which meant that its crew would require supplies and succor. Merchants and dock tarts passing by made note of its name and smiled.

On board, the ship’s Captain stood surveying from the quarter deck, his battered hat crusted with salty sea spray and eyes harshed into a narrow squint by years of brutal sunlight. He shook his stiff blue jacket and thud-clanked his wooden leg along the deck, followed by the reverent attention of the crew. He had decades of experience, an all-encompassing knowledge of the sea, and the respect and loyalty of all who sailed beneath him. Despite all this, as he took command of the helm he just couldn’t help humming the theme from “Popeye the Sailor Man.”

It was appropriate, given the name of the ship: the Popeyed Goldfish. Captain Bartholomew watched with pleasure as the crew took up his tune, every one of them alert at their posts and ready to make the short sail to the new slip.

“All right, mates!” he shouted into the clear ocean air. “Let’s get her settled. Slow and steady, now!”

Easing away from the dock, the brig came alive. Bartholomew could feel it thrum beneath his feet, a catlike creature in the currents of Saint Kitts’ bay. She was being powered only by the mainmast sails, and yet she responded quickly to the crew as they worked to maneuver her to the southern part of the port. “That’s the way, me Goldfish,” the captain whispered. His senior officer, Lagarde, stood to his right, still humming about spinach. Lagarde was young to be so high in rank, but he was a strong, smart fellow, whose lanky figure stood in contrast to Bartholomew’s compressed, meaty silhouette.

“What do ye think, Lagarde,” Bartholomew drawled, as he steered the Goldfish toward the flag that marked the ship chandler’s shack. “A week or so in port and we’ll have the crew fattened up and ready for another round of privateering, eh?”

“Aye, sir,” Lagarde smiled. “If the tarts don’t steal ’em away.”

“Watch that yerself, me fellow,” Bartholomew said. He glanced sideways at his officer, a little astonished by his self-possession. At the age of 20, Bartholomew himself had been a dissolute, disagreeable fellow, with no ambition but to drink himself to sleep every night. It wasn’t until he’d won the Popeyed Goldfish in a poker game when he was 31 that he’d found his true love. He’d been married to the sea ever since, and the sea had been a steady mistress.

Lagard, on the other hand, seemed born to the life, and never seemed to doubt his calling. He rarely drank, fought with a sword like a nobleman, and gave commands with a fair, friendly-natured aspect. Indeed, he was so good that Bartholomew expected a break-down every day, and would have accepted finding Lagarde swimming in the bilge in a drunken fit as a matter of course.

“Ye’ll have to have a pint with me at the inn tonight, lad,” Bartholomew said. “I expect no less.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Lagarde said, absent-mindedly. “Hup, here we are. Bring her around starboard-side, mates!”

The brig swung neatly into its slip, assisted by hearty figures on the dock who took the ropes thrown to them by the crew. Morning was beginning to shade into noon, and Saint Kitts sparkled on its hillside, washed clean by the heavy mists of the night before. Lagarde, looking at the stone buildings and cobblestone streets, felt a premonition. Something would happen to him here, whether good or bad he couldn’t tell. The young officer often had these glimpses of the future. It was the Roma, or gypsy, blood in him; his grandmother had been one of the wandering folk. Now, however, he shook off the premonition, since it didn’t really tell him anything, but only made him feel melancholy.

“I will take you up on that drink, Captain,” he said, suddenly. “Let’s toast the ocean, and our next journey on it.”

“That’s the spirit, lad!” Bartholomew cried. He took off his battered hat and whacked it on the ship’s wheel, a habit he had for good luck. As the crew felt the ship settle into its berth, and heard the anchor splash into the shallow waters below, they cheered.

-

Senara had been fed a breakfast of oatmeal, and had drunk her coffee, and was feeling a little steadier than she had upon waking, when she decided to try and approach the subject of the tattoo.

For more fortitude, she rubbed the knot in her pocket. It was a thing she had shown to few people, and discussed with even fewer. To see its image drawn on another person had shaken her sense of possession of it. Maybe it was more common than she knew.

It seemed doubtful, however, that Marya would have anything common impressed upon her skin. Senara watched her hostess as she dusted a trinket case that sat in the hallway between the common room and the foyer. Even with her hair tied up in an old gray bandana, and a stained yellow apron besmirching her front, Marya looked elegant and grown-up. Senara would never be such a lady, she thought, looking down wryly at her boyish striped britches. She grimaced, picturing her pug nose, her lightly freckled cheeks, and her ratty black hair.

“What would compel you to give such a screw-faced look?” Marya laughed, suddenly sitting down next to Senara, leaning forward conspiratorially.

Senara drew back. “Ah, me coffee’s a little bitter,” she said, stiff again. She swirled the drink in its mug, looking into its depths as if to find confidence.

“Sorry about that,” Marya said. “Teague likes it dark as midnight, but I’ll tell her to lay off a bit. If, that is, yer going to stay with us another night.”

Senara looked up. Marya seemed so friendly, so reassuring. “Well, I’ll have to find some work,” Senara said, timidly, not wanting to ask for help. “I thought I’d look in at some shipwright shops today. I have a bit of experience in rope-making.”

Marya nodded. “I’d be happy to give ye a letter of recommendation,” she said. “I’ve a reputation as a businessperson here, so it might help ye out.”

“I thank ye,” Senara said, and Marya got up briskly, went to a table in the corner, and came back with parchment and a pen. She wrote out a brief letter and signed it with a flourish.

“There it is,” she said. “Let the ink dry a bit before ye fold it.” She held the paper out to Senara, using the arm with the tattoo. Senara saw her chance.

“Marya, what... what is that tattoo of?” she asked, taking the paper and trying to sound casual.

Marya looked at the tattoo, holding out her lovely arm. “Oh, it’s naught but a decorative knot,” she said.

“But I’ve never seen that one before,” Senara lied. “What is it?”

“Aye, it’s an old one,” Marya said, and suddenly she looked Senara in the eye, her lids slightly lowered. There was a moment of silence, and then Marya said, “There’s an old story that says that those who know this knot can never be lost. It’s said to be the most complicated knot in the world, and knowledge of how to tie it has been handed down from generation to generation. It goes by many different names; some call it the Key Knot, some the Treasure Knot. Some call it the Knot of Heaven.”

Excitement prickled Senara’s skin. “Do you know how to tie it?” she asked.

“Alas, no,” said Marya, shaking her head. “Me grandmother did. She was one of the gypsy folk. After she passed on, I kept the last knot she’d tied until it was nearly rotted, and then I had this tattoo made as a reminder.”

“Why didn’t she teach you?”

“I didn’t know her until she was far too old to handle the knot,” said Marya, and sadness tinged her voice.

Senara imagined Marya’s grandmother, a kindly, once beautiful woman ensconced in a rocking chair, telling tales. Was that all there was to it? A traditional knot, handed down through generations? And here she had been thinking there was some deep, dark secret. She laughed at herself, and, making the decision impulsively, pulled out the knot her mother had given her and placed it on the table.

Marya’s eyes widened. “Where did you get that?” she asked, her hand hovering over the knot as if she were afraid to touch it.

Senara shrugged. “My mother left it for me. I never really knew her, though--“

Suddenly, with a quick movement, Marya pushed the knot back toward Senara. Her face was tense, and she hunched toward the girl.

“No!” Marya hissed. “It can’t be! You must give it to me!” She seemed to hesitate, then reached for the knot, but Senara grabbed it and shoved it deep into her pocket, leaping up and running to the door instinctively. Marya’s face had transformed; she looked furious, crazed.

“Give it to me! They’ll murder you for it!” she screamed, lunging for the girl, who threw open the door and hurled herself into the bustling street.

-

Lagarde stepped off the Popeyed Goldfish with a swing in his step -- and not just because he hadn’t gotten his land-legs. The sun had nearly risen to the center of the sky, and the city before him sparkled with whitewash and shiny wares displayed in windows. As he strode from the dock onto land, a pretty tart in a pink dress winked at him. He was a free man with poe in his pocket.

“Well, me boy,” Bartholomew’s paw-like hand clamped his shoulder. “Do what ye need to do, and we’ll meet up at sunset at me old friend Tipper’s tavern.”

“Aye, aye, cap’n,” Lagarde saluted.

Bartholomew shook a finger at him. “Don’t get too distracted, I warn ye!”

Lagarde laughed, watching the captain’s stocky figure bound off into the nearest side street. Then he turned, studiously avoiding the dock tart’s glance, and made his way to a sign post that pointed him toward the section of town with the bakeries. His first land mission, after months at sea, was to get himself a decent cup of coffee and a doughnut. The ship’s cook’s pastries left much to be desired.

Whistling, he followed the sign up the hill, but no sooner had he gone fifty feet than a black-haired girl ran full-tilt into him, clutching something in her hand so tightly that it formed a rock-hard fist that rammed Lagarde in the rib cage.

“Oof!” he grabbed the girl by the shoulder. She panted; her eyes were wild, her cheeks blooming. “I know this ruse!” Lagarde said sternly. “If yer trying to pickpocket me, you’ll get a bruise for yer trouble!”

The girl ducked her head and tried to squirm away. Seeing that she was firmly tethered to Lagarde’s arm, she squeaked, “No, no! It’s ... it’s me... me landlady. She’s gone nutso! She says they’re out to murder me --“

Lagarde picked the girl up like a rum barrel and pulled her into an alleyway, out of sight. She was a funny little thing, her hair a flyaway mess, her kicking feet shod in brand new boots. As Lagarde put her down on the cobblestone, her dark blue eyes snapped up at him.

“I’ll thank ye not to treat me like merchant wares!” she said, straightening her jacket. Lagarde smiled.

“What’s this about murder, me lass?” he harrumped.

The girl glanced around nervously. “Me name’s Senara,” she said. She looked at him steadily, seeming to make a quick decision. “Look, pretend I am with you, that you know me, and I’ll pay ye some poe. Nothing shady, just -- let’s walk, and pretend to be shopping.”

He nodded, and she braided her arm through his. They walked along the waterfront quay, in the opposite direction she’d barrelled into him from. Slowly her breathing evened out and she loosened her grip on his arm; she even reached up and smoothed out her hair, which he now noticed glistened with blue highlights in the sun. They passed a tailor’s shop, and Lagarde pointed at a maroon gown in the window.

“My dear, look!” he said. “It’s just your size.”

Senara smiled a small crooked smile, and Lagarde laughed with satisfaction. He forgot about his coffee and doughnut, having found something much sweeter to occupy his time until sunset: adventure.