Excessica Anthology BOX SET Winter (41 page)

A
further ten minutes bumping along the half hidden rails, and Eve knew she was
approaching the city docks. A blind man would know, so overpowering was the
stench of rotting fish heads, and sun-broiled sea wrack. In moments, she almost
prayed for that blindness. Half shrouded beneath late afternoon fog, a shocking
panorama of hopeless misery lay spread like a gigantic festering corpse before
her. She'd never seen such poverty–it was far more offensive than any
stink of fish offal.

Every
derelict hovel flaunted its spirit-crushing poverty. It was common knowledge
the bountiful fish gracing local waters had long since fled these shores. What
few fish the local mariners caught in their trawls or on hooks were few and of
far inferior size and quality. A mere five years ago, most of what flopped
around in their ragged nets would've been dumped back in the sea as trash Now,
whatever gilled creature gasped its last in their nets was greedily stowed
aboard their leaky craft, and sold in port at rock-bottom prices. The
underemployed fish folk were all drift, totally becalmed, miserable and
starving. Their tattered spirits hung lifeless as windless sails, banging back
and forth, leaving them stuck in irons, and going nowhere. In hopeless despair,
they'd crowded in through the Drowned Mariners' doors, fallen to their knees
before the strange heathen idols, and surrendered what little treasures they
still clutched in the vain hope their heartless fish god would hear their
miserable whimpers, and restore its finny bounty. So far, their deep sea deity
had proven stubbornly deaf.

With
grave misgivings, Eve left the trolley. Inquiring to the temple's location from
the first lurching sailor who didn't reek of rotgut rum and fish brains, she
received directions from a shaky pointed finger and a wheezing grunt. Hurrying
through the neighborhood as fast as her hobble skirt allowed, Eve felt hemmed
in on all sides by hostile glares from the staring locals. Writhing in
discomfit, she felt the first icy fingers of fear skitter down her back as she
avoided looking directly into reptilian eyes that seemed to undress her as she
passed. As she scurried by, the shambling locals stopped in their wanderings to
stare angrily at her, or crowd in tight as sardines, reminding her of her
confining corset with its pinching whalebone stays, and her sudden inability to
breathe. Five grumbling crewmen, obviously recently discharged unpaid from one
of the weed-crusted scows moored in the harbor approached her, already half
awash from the squat rum bottle they shared. Lurching and rolling her way, they
cursed and promised her lewd delights. They seemed to ooze fish-stink and cheap
booze from every pore. As she skittered by, the youngest pressed his open
tattooed hand on her ass, then toppled to the slime-slick cobble stones, dead
drunk. Quickening her step, Eve prayed the muttering men wouldn't prove too
bold and add probing fingers to their bodice-ripping stares. Their icy looks
made her skin crawl.

The
remaining sailors began to circle like hungry sharks, and were quickly joined
by small clusters of silent watchers until they bloated into a mumbling mob.
Eve felt herself herded as the boldest pushed and shoved her towards a trash
clogged alley, growing steadily more brazen with each shuffling step. Soon,
they began to poke and pinch. Red, swollen hands, missing fingers lost in
tangled rigging lurched out of the fog to finger her fancy blouse, begriming
its delicate lace. Another giant hulk of a seaman, his near naked body clothed
almost entirely in sinister tattoos, knocked her boater off, and danced away
down the nearest dark alley, her tiny straw hat perched on his bald head, its
tricolor ribbons fluttering in the damp mist.

"You
be lost, Miss?"

Eve
looked quickly behind her, her gaze continuing right about until she saw a
small man seated on a wooden cart. A leering dwarf. As the thickening fog eased
momentarily, she stepped back in shock; the man was no dwarf at all, but merely
half of a large man. Below his waist, the old sailor had–the cart.

"Obadiah
Slate, late cook aboard the
Heathen Princess.
Oh, you're looking at me body.
Heh heh, I tends to forget. Me and a bit of the crew's supper had us a
disagreement. Seems the big fish wasn't quite dead. Ate off me legs,
disagreeable critter. Sure made a mess of me galley. Still, the boys hadn't had
a taste of fresh meat in months. Nothing like a sizzling hunk of thigh to set
the mouth watering!"

"Ah–Mr.
Slate, I think I may be lost. I'm looking for the temple of Drowned
Mariners."

"Then,
you are truly lost, my child," muttered the truncated man as he swiftly
navigated his wooden cart into the thickest of the swirling fog.

 With
the departure of the half-devoured cook, the rest of the hovering mob moved
closer. With grunts and hisses, the rabble took hold of the stranger with
talon-studded hands, many stiffened into arthritic claws, and tugged at her
linen skirt, yanking her this way and that, yet always seemed to steer her
deeper into the shadows and mischief.

"Stop,
at once!"

Near
panic, Eve caught a sudden flash of shiny verdigris as a Bronze monster
squatting on top of an ornate staff came crashing down on her nearest
tormentor's hair-less head.

Powerfully
built, a tall figure waded into the circling mob, laying about him with his
carved staff, cracking heads and shoving aside his grumbling parishioners.

This
must be one of the priests or monks of the Lost Mariners’ temple; perhaps the
very man she'd had been sent to seek. Was he really this handsome, or was it
merely because he'd come to her rescue?

Her
rescuer was gorgeous.

 “You
must be the lady from the Women’s Rights march, come looking for the donation
our temple promised."

"Yes.
I'm Evangeline Finche...ah, Father?"

"I
am surprised that they sent someone so young and…pretty. Usually Spinster
Snodgrass has more sense. Never mind. Come along. I can see our hot afternoon
sun is distressing you. Follow me please. It’s cool and less bright inside. We
can talk there, away from my afflicted flock."

He
was so handsome. Tall, muscular, he looked like anything but a priest of some
weird cult. He wore his hair long, a flowing dark brown mane, framing a face of
noble features. His eyes were the green-gray of a winter North Atlantic, his
nose straight and proud as the sharp prow of any warship. His mouth was
generous with a full bottom lip meant for deep thinking...or kissing. His priestly
raiment–well, to be honest, his clothes spoke more of a heroic sea
captain from one of Eve's
Penny Dreadfuls
than a pompous priest.

He
was dressed head to foot in the latest of fashion, sporting a new brown bowler,
crisp starched collar with white wings, and a buttery soft looking brown suit:
jacket, vest, and trousers–were they just a mite too tight around the
obvious bulge nestled at the crotch of his legs?
Eve Finche! Proper young
ladies just didn't contemplate such things! Right. Sure I don't.
No shroud-like
priest robes decorated in forbidden runes, and images of blasphemous acts
between impossible creatures.
Too many Penny Dreadfuls again, Eve! Why, her
savior was the very picture of a hero; all she'd ever desired in a handsome
young man.

"Miss
Finche, I'm sorry I wasn't at the trolley stop to meet you. My duties in the
crypt–I must apologize for some of my more abrasive parishioners. They
can be most distrustful of strangers."

As
he spoke, the damp fog surrounding them seemed to gather her damp gray skirts,
and whisk away. Within minutes, the late afternoon sun came out.
Fancy
that–the man can drive away the gloom, and bring forth dancing sunbeams.
Almost a miracle!
Unfortunately, with the return of the sun came the humid
heat.

"How
rude and remiss of me. I am Father Nathan Squalus, captain of our humble
vessel, the Savior of Drowned Mariners Temple. Come inside, my child. Come.
Mind your step, now. Some of the old ballast stones are a mite worn. Pray,
forgive my parish. They do not often see ladies of quality. I'm afraid since
their nets began coming up empty, their main concern has been putting food in
their bellies and a roof over their heads. It's been a while since I've moved
freely in your world, and I was never one for shopping in the finer shops, but
I'm guessing the price of this dainty shirtwaist you're wearing would feed one
of my families for a brace of months. Ah, here we are–please step inside
Miss Finche. Now, isn't this better?"

Eve
stepped past the handsome priest as he held open one of the gilded doors,
feeling ridiculously tiny as she entered through the huge, oddly-shaped portal.
At five four, she barely reached the center motif on the ornate bronze doors,
each depicting a storm at sea with a valiant ship being tossed on to a hidden reef,
and most repulsive scenes of sailors cavorting with strange fish creatures in a
most disgusting manner. Like a huge gaping maw, as the doors opened into the
black belly of the beast, Eve was easily reminded of some half-forgotten line
of poetry:
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.
Suddenly, she was
through. Inside the belly. And Nathan shut the huge door with a roaring bang
like angry cannon fire.

* *
* *

Once
inside the cool shadowy vestibule, she spun on her heel, gave herself a quick
once-over and extended her gloved hand in greeting.

“Thank
you so much, Father Squalus."

"You're
quite welcome, Miss Finche. Now if you'll just follow me..."

"Call
me Eve. Evangeline or Miss Finche sound so...old."

"Eve...I
like that. Pretty. Like you."

"You're
too kind sir. Pray stop–you'll make this poor girl blush. I do want you
to know, I’m so very deeply in your debt for rescuing me out there. I-I’m sure
your …people meant me no harm, but they quite frightened me. You must think me
such a silly girl. I'm afraid I’ve led a rather sheltered existence. I really
have no experience of the world outside my own…society. Forgive me. If you
could just give me your generous donation, I could be on my way. I’ve troubled
you long enough.”

You
are quite forgiven my dear. You are so very young. What are you: seventeen,
eighteen, nineteen at most? Not yet presented to society, I'll venture.”

“Eighteen.
Still. It seems like an eternity before I’ll come of age. Be able to vote.
That’s why we must…”

 “Yes,
yes my dear. You don’t need to
sell
me. You’ll have your money. But
won’t you allow me to get you some refreshment? You’ve come such a long way,
and I can see you’re tired. My brethren and I so seldom have visitors. We are
quite famished for some stimulating conversation. Please tarry awhile. I'd love
the opportunity to show you our temple from stem to stern."

Eve
fidgeted, eager to be on her way, but not wanting to leave a bad impression or
display an offensive breach in her breeding. Obviously, this gentleman knew
Spinster Snodgrass. If word should somehow trickle back...

Quietly
slipping the pearl buttons to one of her shirtwaist's satin cuffs undone, Eve
snuck a peek at the tiny watch her clever father had worked into her expensive
jeweled bracelet.

A
mere glance told her not only the hours, but the remaining time to
sunset–not long–and the time her little dog, Mimi, needed to be
fed. Her poor little dog–so old and feeble, with nothing to look forward
to but her next meal.
Why did sweet little doggies lead such short lives?

"I
really should be going–if you'd be so kind as to bring me the petition
and your generous donation, I'll just be on my way."

"No
time for a tour? Pity. Very well, Miss Finche–if you'll just follow me
into my office, I'll get your money. Oh, don't worry–I'm not about to
burden you with a huge sack of gold doubloons. Paper, Miss Finche, all legal
and proper, good at any bank. We're really quite progressive here, Miss Finche,
I assure you."

"Eve.
Please."

"Very
well. Afterwards...Eve, I'll have one of my trusted officers chart you a course
for a safe and speedy sail home. Now, if you'll just follow me."

He
turned and disappeared into his shadow-filled cavern of a church, allowing Eve
no chance to protest or refuse.

Whatever
Evangeline expected the inside of the temple of Drowned Mariners to look like,
this wasn't it. Once inside, she removed her adjustable sunshade goggles, and
her own eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom. Her blue eyes widened as she beheld
the huge church nave. She was in the belly of a huge ship.

"She's
the old
Heathen Princess
, our proud privateer from all those years past.
The lads and I thought there could be no finer haven in which to bend our knees
than our own beloved vessel, so for our first miracle, I raised our honored
frigate from her watery grave.

Looking
high above her, catching the bright sunset dancing through a few of the ancient
ship's half-rotted timbers, Eve noticed a ship's crew of feathery corpses
nailed near the end of each of the ship's ribs.

"Father
Squalus–what are those feathery things up there?"

"Nathan,
please. They're gulls. Herring and Laughers, mostly. That one, nearest the
ship's wheel, is an albatross from the southern latitudes. The ancient mariners
believed the souls of drowned sailors flew into the sea gulls, those of their
harder-hearted skippers becoming albatrosses. By pinning each of those to the
Witch's
ribs, we've gathered their souls, and offered them eternal shelter."

Trapped
them, you mean.

Looking
around herself, Eve saw many things she'd really like to take her time viewing.
An old rusted cannon, a battered figurehead of an imploring young woman, a huge
bronze statue almost entirely submerged in a coating of verdigris, showing some
particularly hideous fish man hybrid. So many interesting things–if only
it wasn't already so late.
The sun had fled. Father would be furious. Still,
weren't all these historical marine treasures part of the great outside world
she'd been denied for so long? Didn't she have a right to partake?